A Friend In Need
by Greenlips24
Summary: They say there is safety in numbers. Individual one-man missions, therefore can, mean danger. The four Musketeers bid each other farewell and go their separate ways with a promise to meet in a few days time at The Wren. But one does not return.
1. Chapter 1

**Greetings, Dear Readers: **Happy New Year!Well, this started off as Chapter 91 of Infirmary Talks, but it grew and grew, so now it's a multi-chapter fic. Twenty chapters, all plotted and written but who knows, it may still grow. I will post every other day. It's been nice to write something a little longer. I hope you enjoy it.

oOo

**A FRIEND IN NEED:**

**Chapter One**

The huge wooden doors creaked open.

Faltering footsteps made their way across the vast, empty barn.

Even in the faded light, the dull red hat gave him away.

"Silas?"

"Yes," the old man whispered, his voice infinitely sad.

He reached out his hand to lay it on the man's chest.

"I am sorry, I cannot free you," he said. "The rope is too high. Too tight. My fingers are stiff with age."

"You did your best."

"It was not enough," the old man replied. "They are a scourge on our once-beautiful village. They took it from us and ruined it."

The old man had previously explained in another stolen moment that these men had appeared one morning and simply assumed control. The crop had subsequently failed. But that had been the intention, for half-starved villagers were easier to control. Some had fled, of course, in those early days, before their iron grip tightened. Those lucky ones had managed to take what little they had, including animals. In the end, the old man, Silas, was the only one left.

"I will not give up," the old man said now, as he straightened and pulled a water skin from behind his back, looking around.

"They are drinking in the fields but they will come back," he added, as he held it up, watching as it was gratefully received.

"Don't spill it, or they will know," he whispered, urgently, as he gently pulled it back.

"I am going for help, Musketeer," he continued. "I will walk to the next village. Try to hold on."

"It's too far."

"You gave yourself over to them because of me," the old man said, before he faltered. "Try to hold on."

"Before I go," he added, "There is something you should know, Athos," the old man said.

oOo

**Six days earlier:**

"You four. Up here. Now!"

It promised to be another hot day.

The stable door stood open in an attempt to allow some air inside. Men sat around, cleaning weapons, rather than training in the heat. Dust from the yard hung in the air, which was heavy with the stench of the streets outside the Garrison.

Aramis, Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan had been at their usual table, under the balcony beneath Treville's office, where the shadows barely gave shade. Their uniform jackets had been abandoned after muster; too thick and heavy to wear.

Athos stood immediately, reaching for his jacket.

"Leave it," Treville said, from above. "It's too hot for formality, Athos."

Athos tilted his head in acknowledgement and flicked his hand at the others, as they formed an untidy line and trudged up the wooden stairs, their heavy footfalls evidence of their lack of energy.

The four men lined up in front of their Captain's desk and stood to attention, not entirely foregoing the habit of their station.

Four rolls of parchment lay on his desk, three together and one slightly apart.

"Your orders, Gentlemen. At ease," Treville said, after a moment of savouring temporary control over them.

They relaxed into the said position and Treville took one of the three papers and handed it to Porthos.

Porthos unrolled it and read it carefully.

"Taxes," he said flatly.

"To be collected from the Comte de 'Autevielle," Treville replied. "No problems are anticipated. He is late in payment due to a death in the family. It's been a long time and the King is impatient. Offer the King's condolences and come straight back."

"Maybe he was 'oping to avoid payin' them," Porthos said, rather uncharitably.

"A hopelessly futile notion," Athos murmured, from his end of the line.

"Who do you think pays your wages?" Treville addressed Porthos, curtly.

"I thought the King did," Aramis said, airily. "From the goodness of his heart," he added, hand on his own heart.

d'Artagnan remained silent, but looked amused.

Treville ignored Aramis's facetiousness and picked up the second parchment and handed it to d'Artagnan. As he read it, d'Artagnan said the name of its recipient, a question in his voice.

"Merely a message to be delivered," Treville intoned. "No answer required. It is important, nonetheless."

d'Artagnan rolled the parchment up and leant forward, giving Porthos his best smirk.

That left two more orders.

The final one of the trio was handed to Aramis.

Treville did not wait for him to unroll it, knowing its contents from the position on his desk.

"That needs a signature. Make sure you get the right one. The man has a twin brother and a rather foolish sense of humour."

Aramis smiled brightly, turning to look at his brothers. He obviously thought he'd got the best deal so far.

"Excellent," he said. "Nothing wrong with a sense of humour."

"Or a penchant for successful humiliation of the foolishly trusting," Athos added quietly, obviously aware of the recipient's reputation.

Aramis deflated and frowned, now not feeling quite as assured.

Treville hid a smirk of his own as he reached for the final order.

"A negotiation for you, Athos, for a strategic parcel of land," he said, handing it across. "But by no means beyond your skills."

This was why he had set that mission document apart. Careful negotiation was needed and Athos was the right man for the job.

"A little reduction on the proposed price would be appreciated by the Crown, however, before you shake hands."

"Of course," Athos replied, carefully reading the order. No money would exchange hands yet, this would be the initial agreement as to price, and signing of the document.

"Two to three days for each of you," Treville said, looking at Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan. "A little longer for you, Athos, should you need it. But no longer than five days. I expect you all back here by Friday."

As they all trooped down the stairs, Porthos dug d'Artagnan in the back for his earlier cockiness.

"Taxes," he growled. "I hate collectin' taxes."

**To be continued ...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Just over two hours later, the four were packed and mounted.

Individual missions were not unusual, but it was an unspoken rule that there was safety in numbers, and they much preferred each other's company. They rode out of the city gates together and then with a wave, they went their separate ways with the promise to meet back in the yard in due course for a date at the The Wren.

For his part, Athos had ridden to the estate of Baron Michel de Bouvier to discuss payment for a parcel of his estate near Rouen. The land in question gave a clear panoramic view to the south. Cardinal Richelieu wanted control of that land and offered a price that would need to be negotiated. Athos had been chosen to do the negotiating and bring the signed document back to Paris forthwith.

Richelieu had been establishing a network of watchtowers that overlooked strategic lands close to the border, as well as rivers and estuaries that criss crossed the land, should there be a future war with Spain.

The Baron had turned out to be a personable man, who had enjoyed an evening with Athos, discussing warfare in general and enjoying of the fine wines from the estate's cellars. He also enjoyed catching up with affairs of court, as he had been unable to attend court himself for some time, due to a hip injury which had ended his horse riding days but also any lengthy carriage travel. The Baron's son had not yet reached his majority but he was also an intelligent and clear-headed young man, who shared his father's willingness to assist France in preparations for any future skirmishes with Spain. In view of the Baron's incapacity, Athos had felt it expedient to form a good impression with the boy for the future, should anything befall his father. War may be years away, but the Cardinal was a strategic thinker, with France's best interests at heart, as he so often liked to remind those who criticised him.

After much good-humoured negotiation, the Baron duly agreed a price and the required document was signed.

"I am sure his Eminence will be very grateful," Athos said, as he rolled the parchment tightly and packed it into his leather despatch wallet along with some letters the Baron asked Athos if he would be good enough to take to court.

"Well," the Baron mused, amiably. "The Cardinal is not a man to get on the wrong side of, Athos, but I am more than happy to sign that parcel of land over. I have too much land anyway and my ancestors would turn in their graves if I did not do my duty."

"Ancestors can be a fearsome pack," Athos agreed, as the Baron waved him into the next room for dinner.

The following day dawned bright and sunny. Athos dropped the leather wallet into his saddlebag and took his leave of the Baron and his son and set off back to Paris.

He made good headway that day and on the following day was almost within reasonable galloping distance of the city limits, when his horse shed a shoe. Seeing that he could not press on without getting it dealt with, Athos deviated from the track a little further on, hoping to find a hamlet of sorts which may have a blacksmith in residence.

The light filtered through the trees, dappling the lane with shades of light and dark. In the near distance, he could see a large barn and made his way toward it, slowly and steadily. Guiding the horse from the lane, he dismounted and removed the leather wallet from his saddlebag, fitting it under his shirt at his back, before making his way across the field to the barn. Looking around, he was surprised to see the withered crops in the fields surrounding the barn, as it had been a good summer. There was no reason why the crops should have failed. It could only be because of disease or bad management.

He was just about to turn back, when an old man emerged from the barn. A distinctive red hat with a long feather was perched on his head and it was evident that the man was missing his left arm above the elbow, though he carried a sack easily on his other shoulder.

As Athos approached, the old man stopped and dropped the sack on the dry earth.

"Greetings, stranger," the old man called amiably, removing his hat and transferring it under the stump of his arm, before he reached for a cloth and wiped his face. Kicking the sack with his foot, he looked up at Athos and gave him a rueful look.

"Last of the turnips," he said, tucking the cloth back in his pocket. "For what they are worth."

Athos inclined his head.

"What happened here?" he asked, looking across the field.

He had not introduced himself and, in fact, he was not wearing his uniform, which was strapped, along with his pauldron to the back of his saddle. Dressed in plain doublet and breeches, on a hot day, he could be any traveller passing through. Sometimes it did not pay to advertise he was one of the King's Musketeers. He was officially off duty anyway, having completed his mission and on his return to the Garrison to make his report.

"We have not been blessed this year, Monsieur," the old man replied, dropping his voice, a frown now crossing his brow, while looking about him.

"Blight?" Athos replied, curious as to the reason. He was not ignorant of husbandry, there having been tenants on la Fere lands for as long as he could remember. He remained convinced that this did not look like disease to him. If anything, it looked like neglect. There was an established healthy stream nearby, which he had crossed earlier, so there would have been plenty of water for irrigation.

"You could say that," the old man answered carefully.

Athos detected a sudden change in the man's manner and noticed he continued to cast furtive glances to the edge of the field.

"Forgive me," the man brightened, "Where are my manners? Silas Marchant," he said, holding up his hand to Athos, who had continued to remain seated on his horse.

"Athos," his visitor replied, leaning down to take the man's hand.

It was a workman's firm hand, the fingers calloused and bent with age.

"Would you like water, Monsieur Athos?" Silas asked then, turning and indicating a water barrel at the entrance to the barn.

"Thank you, yes," Athos replied.

Athos had, in fact, refilled his water skin in the nearby stream, but he was curious about the fields and the old man's demeanour and wanted to tarry a little longer with Silas Marchant. He therefore dismounted and followed the old man to the barrel.

"My own supply is depleted," he added, "And it looks like it will remain hot into the evening."

Silas did not suggest that rain would be welcome and Athos's suspicions about the fields' neglect deepened. He had passed through fields of healthy crops in abundance over the last few days, so to come across such neglect was odd, to say the least.

The man filled a bowl and held it out to Athos for his horse, followed by a smaller bowl for Athos himself. Seeing Athos looking at what remained of his arm, Silas followed his gaze.

"Arques in '89," he said, by way of explanation. "Before you were born, I'll wager."

"Eight years before," Athos replied, his interest piqued. "You were a soldier?"

"For some years," Silas replied. "Looking to get out when this happened."

"My apologies, it is none of my business," Athos said, looking away.

"I have had one arm longer than I have had two, Monsieur. I am well used to it by now."

Athos was not prone to small talk, but he was just about to enquire about the condition of the fields, when the sound of horses pulled his attention toward the area of the field that Silas had been watching. Three riders were slowly making their way across the field toward them. Pulling up a little way from them, they remained on their horses, looking at Athos.

"Hold your peace, Monsieur, I beg you," the old man whispered, not turning his head but straightening his back and meeting the gaze of the three men.

One of the men broke away and walked his horse forward.

"What have we here, Silas?" the man said, cold eyes on the old man.

"Nothing, Raymond," Silas replied, gruffly. "Just a stranger passing through. Is that not right, Monsieur?" he added, turning to Athos.

Athos's eyes flicked to the old man, while he stored the new man's name away.

Athos did not reply. He merely met the man, Raymond's, cold gaze with one of his own. The man's eyes raked down Athos, taking in his appearance, and that of his horse.

"Where are you heading to, stranger?" he finally said.

"Paris," Athos intoned. "Once I have replaced my horse's shoe."

"Well," Raymond replied, flatly. "You don't have to worry about that."

"And why is that?" Athos replied, carefully weighing up the three men.

"You won't be needing him," the man replied, pulling out a pistol and aiming it at Athos's chest. "We'll take him off your hands, don't you worry."

"I think not," Athos replied, flatly, hand on the hilt of his sword.

"_Raymond_," Silas said, sounding a warning note, and, at the break in attention, Athos dropped and rolled away, unsheathing his sword as he rose to his feet.

Raymond fired his primed weapon, hitting the water barrel as Athos pushed it over and disappeared into the barn. The door swung back on its hinges, and silence descended.

**To be continued ...**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Many thanks for reading and reviewing, and to those I cannot thank personally, its very much appreciated.

oOo

**Chapter Three**

Inside the barn, Athos was waiting for Raymond to enter.

Standing in the shadows, Athos had the advantage. Outside, Raymond, who had fought in many battles, knew he would either die the instant he entered, or would immediately be engaged in a sword fight. He had seen the stranger roll away - a classic move - and so was alerted that this was a man who could handle himself.

Therefore, when he entered, pushing the door open just enough to step through, he himself rolled inside the barn toward the left, holding his sword over his head as protection as he came up into a crouch. Sure enough, it was met with a hard downward strike that almost decapitated him. Falling backward, he scrambled to the side, as the side of the stranger's blade skimmed off his arm and into the earth at his side. He kicked out instinctively, catching the stranger in the knee.

Athos appeared to stagger back and the man stepped forward, only to find it was a feint, and the sword came again. There then followed a flurry of vicious thrusts and parries, each man gaining a few inches, only to fall back. They were evenly matched and both wanted to win.

They pushed each other to the end of the barn, where a bank of empty animal stalls stood, built of thick wooden planks and metal work. At the other end of the barn, the door opened once more, but neither man could take their eyes off the other and the fight continued.

Raymond pulled a length of thick coiled rope from a hook on a nearby post and, holding the end in his hand, he uncoiled it with a shake and whipped it toward Athos, who avoided it by a whisper. Raymond tried again, this time aiming for Athos's legs, but, although he had discarded his uniform, Athos still wore his boots, which absorbed what could have otherwise been a devastating impact.

Raymond was quickly becoming incandescent with rage, shouting obscenities and sweating profusely. Athos took advantage of his loss of control and came at him with a swift flurry of text book manoeuvres that had the man forced into the animal stalls, his back to the wooden slats.

Just as Athos raised his sword to claim victory, Raymond broke eye contact and shouted to his side.

Athos paused, his hand at the man's throat and his sword raised, only to see the other two men had come into the barn. One of them had his arm around Silas's throat and the other had his sword at the old man's heart.

"Give up your sword, or he dies," the one choking the old man snarled, tightening his hold.

Athos dropped his hand and took a step back and with a sigh, dropped the point of his sword to the earth. The old man was released and pushed forward. He reached up his hand to massage his throat as he struggled to even his breathing.

"I am sorry, Monsieur," he gasped, his head hanging.

"Not your fault," Athos said.

Suddenly, Raymond kicked his knee. As Athos staggered, Raymond kicked his sword away, and punched him into unconsciousness.

oOo

**Noon: **

"What are we going to do with him?"

The first words Athos heard when he came back to his senses did not bode well.

The three figures swam unsteadily into view as he tried to lift his hand to probe his eye, which was unfocussed and painful. However, a rope tied around his wrist impeded him, and when he turned his head, he saw that he was slumped on the ground at the base of a supporting post, to which he was tied.

"Whatever we want," Raymond replied with a feral grin, watching reality dawn on his prisoner.

"Might take a while," the man added, "But I reckon that we can wear him down."

Athos stared up at him, not breaking eye contact.

"He's a bold one," one of the men said.

"He might be _now_, Henri," Raymond replied. "But we'll take our time with this one, hear me? You are both too fast in slitting throats," he added, looking Athos up and down.

"This time, we take our time," he repeated.

Athos sighed inwardly. He would need all his strength to endure this ordeal. He wondered vaguely when Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan would start to look for him. Regrettably, he was not due back until after them and he had deviated from the road a way back, he remembered, because of his horse. Again, he wondered where his horse was. At least they would not find his despatches if they searched his saddlebags.

Then, there was the old man. What would become of him if Athos died? They had already threatened him, and no doubt had done so before. They were on first name terms, after all.

Athos was aware that his attitude could sometimes be construed as arrogant, and in this, he would need to hold his tongue. These men were dangerous and unpredictable, that was certain. They spoke of slitting throats with an ease of men who had crossed a line.

However, he fell at the first fence when Raymond approached him and stared at him.

It was nigh on impossible to intimidate Athos, and when Raymond asked him how he felt about dying slowly, he had rolled his eyes and sighed. The man had no idea of how many deaths Athos had thought up for himself and how self destructive he had been and perhaps, truth be told, when the melancholy settled about him, still was. Death held no fear for him but he would learn over the following days to hold his tongue, for his reply that it was of "no particular interest to him, and if he was going to do it, he should get on with it, and save them all time," apparently wreaked of arrogance in Raymond's eyes and it earned him a blow to his gut that took his breath away.

Raymond took a fistful of Athos's hair and pulled his head up.

"Like I said," he hissed. "We intend to take our time, so get used to it."

Athos looked away from him, his gaze falling on the two men behind him.

Alerted, Raymond twisted his hand, and it was Athos's turn to hiss.

"And if you think you can use your fancy tone to cause a rift between us in the days to come," he said, "You should think again. These are not just men in my _employ_; they are my brothers. Younger than me, and led by me. Think on that," he growled as he threw Athos's head to the side and walked away.

"Of course they are," Athos could not help replying, disdainfully. "They have the same inbred look of vacancy."

He silently cursed himself when Raymond turned slowly around and advanced on him. Aramis would have something to say to him about it, no doubt.

If they ever saw each other again.

oOo

Raymond Vachon had grown up on a farmstead, but his father had left when he was eight years old to find more work, never to return.

He and his two brothers, Henri and Phillipe, had done their best as boys but a series of setbacks and a long dry spell had had devastating consequences on the farm. When their mother died, they were twelve, fifteen and seventeen years old.

The old King, Henry IV, was assassinated the following year and his heir's mother took regency over his nine year old son until he reached his majority. Times were hard for the Vachon brothers but they had a roof over their heads.

Marie de Medici, however, was no friend to her people and taxes rose to pay for her grand schemes. The people became increasingly embittered, no more so than Raymond and his two brothers, who were earning a reputation for fighting and cruelty. When Louis came to the throne, his people were mostly illiterate, hungry and bitter. Moreover, Louis seemed to have inherited his mother's desire for taxing the populace to pay for buildings they would not be allowed into and schemes that would not benefit them in their lifetimes.

Added to that, the King's first minister, Cardinal Armand Richelieu had the King's ear and a heart of stone.

Money spoke in the new Paris and if no money was to be had, it was frequently taken by force. Brigands and rogues took what they wanted and not just from the rich. A criminal underclass was spawned whose main aim in life was to survive, often by any means possible. So it was that Raymond, Henri and Phillipe Vachon became the scourge of the region. They drank, fought, stole and murdered and for the last year, they had gradually assumed control of Silas's village. The people had been either driven away or had fled and the crops had failed.

It was into the Vachon brother's hands that Athos had now fallen.

**To be continued ...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four **

"It's me, Silas," the old man whispered, as he placed a cold wet cloth over Athos's eye.

It felt good, though Athos did not respond. He had been conscious for a while now, but had kept his eyes closed, listening for any sound around him. When none came to him, he had drifted off, to the sound of the blood thrumming in his ears.

Silas had crept in after the Vachon brothers had gone. He found Athos slumped on the floor against one of the thick wooden posts that supported the roof, with a rope around his throat and one around his waist, which also tied his hands behind him.

When Athos did not reply, the man took the cloth away and looked at him in consternation.

"I am not one of them, Monsieur, I assure you. Though I do know them," he said, before slowly crouching down in front of him, knee joints cracking as he did so.

Finally Athos looked at him, his face expressionless.

"Alright," he said, his tone of voice flat, "Kindly enlighten me."

It was a tone that Silas would come to recognise, as Athos refused to be cowed by the brothers, and spoke to them as if what they were saying was of utter disinterest to him. But right now, this was their first meeting since events had taken a turn for the worst and that tone was aimed at him, as Silas knew there was no reason why this man would trust him.

"We don't have long," Silas replied, hurriedly. "They are drinking in the field."

"Then, you had better make a start," Athos growled, as he cautiously stretched out his legs.

And so, Silas sat down awkwardly and began to tell him about the Vachon brothers and how they had taken control of the village.

As Athos listened, the shadows lengthened and soon, Silas grew agitated.

"Why did you not defend yourselves?" Athos asked. "I passed through your village. It was deserted."

"We were all old," Silas replied. "The Vachons chose wisely. Once the crops were ruined, we were lost."

"So they deserted, and left you here alone," Athos stated, dismissing further comment.

But Silas replied angrily;

"That is not a word you should use lightly, Monsieur," he said, curtly. "They went with my blessing."

When Athos did not reply, Silas turned to go.

"I must go, they will be back soon."

If Athos had a free hand to dismiss him, he would have done, but he suddenly thought he had been uncharitable and a further thought struck him;

"Stay out of sight," he said, his tone a little softer. "Their enthusiasm may spill over."

The old man gave him a look of determination and got to his feet. Dusting himself off, he looked down at the man in front of him.

"I am no sport for them, Monsieur Athos," he said, sadly. "I can do little, but I will not abandon you."

With that, he dried off Athos's eye with the sleeve of his own shirt, and squeezed his shoulder.

It was meant as a comforting gesture, but left Athos with a feeling of utter foreboding.

Left alone but armed with a little more information, he contemplated his situation. These three brothers were common brigands. He had no information that would be of interest to them. This was a straightforward captor and captured scenario. No doubt he would learn more as time went on. One thing worried him though; the safety of the old man, for he was now sure that Silas was as constrained as he.

oOo

The shadows lengthened further, though it was not yet dark in the barn.

Athos had tested his bonds and studied what he could see of the barn. He had even managed to rise to his feet, wanting any further encounter with Raymond to be at eye level.

He was thirsty, but did not hold out for any charity from the three men who, according to Silas, would soon return. Food held little interest to him normally, until he was deprived of it but he knew his limits and just how much time he had. If they wanted to take their time, though, they would have to give him water and _some_ sustenance, or it would not be an even game. Odious as Raymond was, Athos had a feeling he would want some sort of encouragement to mete out retribution.

It was the giggling that first alerted him.

The doors were pushed open and the three stood inside, the dipping sun at their backs, so it was impossible for Athos to see their expressions.

Such laughter, though, was disturbing to him, for children laughed like that. And unhinged adults.

The three came forward unsteadily. They had been drinking all afternoon according to Silas and now they looked very interested in engaging with him. Athos took a quiet, deep breath and allowed his expression to turn to stone.

He could see their faces now, and Raymond held back.

Ah, it was the turn of the two younger ones, he thought to himself as he laced his fingers together behind him and straightened his back. One of the two stepped forward, almost falling over. He had something in his hand, which he held up, inches away from Athos's face.

His pauldron.

"Found this in your saddlebags," he sneered; Henri or Phillipe, Athos did not yet know which, laughed crazily.

Athos merely met the man's unfocussed gaze with a blank expression. The man staggered a little, unnerved that he had not had a better reaction to the evidence in his hand. Raymond took the pauldron from Henri and ran his fingers over it before beginning his own drunken laugh.

"Gentlemen, what we have here, is one of the King's bully boys. It's not every day we have a Musketeer to entertain us!"

Athos's heart sank. Today was obviously one of those days when being a Musketeer would not work in his favour.

Outside the barn, alerted to their return, Silas listened, unseen by the Vachons. His suspicions had been confirmed. Athos was no ordinary soldier. He was a King's Musketeer. To harm him was to harm the King himself.

His heart heavy, he did not stay to watch the Vachon brothers commit treason.

He retreated to his cottage back in the village, a little way along the track from his barn. He was powerless to help but at that moment, he knew he was this Musketeer's only hope. Later, at full nightfall, when the brothers rode away to drink in the tavern, he would come back and see what he could do.

Since the beginning of the year, as each villager had fled, Silas had collected what little they had left behind for his own small store cupboard. The brothers had ransacked the empty houses, but had no need of a few abandoned potatoes, a small sack of flour, or the windfalls from apple trees, when they could ride out to the taverns and eat and drink their fill. They were not impeded by hunger or despair. Or the lack of money, it seemed, at least having enough to sustain themselves.

Left in his own cottage, Silas could still prepare something to sustain him. He could still forage in the woods for berries, fungi and herbs. There was still the odd rabbit to snare. He had once found a few rounds of cheese in one of the empty houses, too cumbersome to carry by whoever left them, weary of oppression but not yet starved enough to care. Silas was grateful it was summer, for he knew he would not survive the winter under the Vachon's rule.

The nearest village was some distance. Country folk were insular people who kept themselves to themselves. No-one would want to challenge the brothers for fear of their own village falling foul of them. To date, no-one had spoken up against them, for fear of reprisals and so the brothers went unchallenged. Silas understood it. Perhaps the brothers would eventually extend their brutality to other villages at some point but at the moment they had what they wanted – a base for their operations, now abandoned and drawing little interest from anyone who may stumble upon it, and a tavern within riding distance. They had left Silas alone, presumably expecting him to go the way of his fellow villagers. Indeed, he kept himself mostly out of sight so they barely registered him. Unfortunately, they had come by just as the Musketeer had, and they were now firmly in Silas's territory; his field _and_ his barn. It was still Silas's barn though, and he would protect it. The future of the village depended on it.

Silas had been a soldier in his younger days and he would do whatever he could to help the soldier now at their mercy. No common soldier at that, if his speech was anything to go by. Once the brothers turned their attention from the fact he was a Musketeer to the idea he may be of noble birth, his days would be numbered.

If Silas could trust anyone with his secret, it would be this man. All they had to do was stay alive until the brothers got bored and moved on, or rescue came. Musketeers, he knew, were not only loyal to the King, but to each other. Soon, they would be looking for this one, he was sure of it.

That day could not come too soon.

**To be continued ...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**The Garrison:**

As Athos was taking his leave of the Baron de Bouvier, Porthos was the first to return to the Garrison. His mission had taken him almost three days.

Handing his horse over to Jacques, the stable boy, he unfastened his saddlebag containing the exact amount of taxation money he had been required to collect, counted out slowly and painstakingly by the Comte 'dAutevielle. He had hoped to return sooner, as the man did not resist. He just took his own sweet time about it, and Porthos was not a patient man at the best of times. It had been frustrating to say the least, but the moment he mounted his horse and turned its head toward Paris, all he could think of was reuniting with his brothers, a good beef stew and a flagon of ale. Plus a card game in The Wren. The sight of all that coin being counted in front of him had ignited an itch he needed to scratch, whether alone or with his brothers.

Slinging the heavy saddlebag over his shoulder, he climbed the stairs to make his report to Treville.

"Any trouble?" Treville asked, as Porthos dropped the bag on his desk.

"Nah. He was surprised to see me, though. Think he thought 'e might have a bit more grace before we took his money off him."

Treville huffed out a smile and opened the saddlebag.

"Then he is a fool, who does not know the Crown gives no quarter in regard to taxation."

"If he didn't," Porthos laughed, "He does now. Doubt he'll be late again."

"I will make sure I send you if he is," Treville replied.

"Have the others got back yet?" Porthos asked.

"You are the first," Treville said. "You are dismissed, Porthos. I am sure you have other things to do now."

Porthos beamed and nodded before taking one last, lingering look at the amount of coin glistening in the saddlebag.

Treville flipped it closed and waved him off. "Go," he said.

Feeling lighter than he had in days, Porthos made his way to the preferred bench beneath the Captain's office to await the return of Aramis and d'Artagnan. Athos was not expected to return this day, but he suspected his other two brothers would still welcome a trip to The Wren after they had eaten.

Jacques had obviously alerted Serge to his arrival, as the man appeared with a flagon of ale and four cups.

"You beauty!" Porthos sighed, taking the flagon from him and placing it in front of him. "Just three cups, Serge," he said, thanking the man. "Athos is due back tomorrow or Friday, at the latest."

Looking at the position Porthos had placed the flagon, Serge huffed out a laugh and shook his head.

"They better hurry up, or that ale will be all gone," he said, as he picked up the discarded fourth cup to return it to the kitchen. Holding the cup in one hand and the tray in the other, he watched as Porthos took hold of the flagon;

"Will you be wantin' food, or 'ave you got other things planned?" he winked.

"I've got a pack of cards with my name on it, Serge," Porthos smiled. "Can't speak for the others."

"You boys know how to enjoy yourselves, so I won't hold my breath," Serge grinned. "Shout if you want more ale."

"You can count on it. My throat's as dry as that tax demand I just delivered," Porthos grunted, happily, as Serge limped away.

He had started pouring ale into one of the three cups, when the sound of an incoming horse made him look up.

By way of greeting, the big man merely raised his head a little higher and hummed, reaching for a second cup. Aramis eased his horse to a standstill and heaved a deep sigh, pulling off his hat and running a hand through his damp hair.

"As much as I love this beast, and I _do_," he called, as he slid gracefully from his saddle, "It's much too hot for horse riding."

"It's too hot for anythin'" Porthos agreed, passing him the cup.

Aramis gave him a grateful tilt of his head and pulled off a glove with his teeth, before accepting the offering.

"Are we the first?" he asked, savouring a slow sip, which he pronounced was "Nectar from the Gods," before tipping the full cup down his throat.

"Looks like it. d'Artagnan is due back any time, but Athos may be a little later, he had the furthest to go."

"Ah yes, to the good Baron de Bouvier," Aramis smiled.

"You know 'im?"

"I knew his good lady," Aramis replied, wistfully.

When Porthos raised an eyebrow and sat back, waiting for an explanation, Aramis laughed.

"Not like that. The dear lady had a good few years on me, my friend."

"Had?" Porthos said. "'An' since when 'as that stopped you?"

Aramis sighed.

"She passed away, alas, some years ago. Splendid woman," he said, shaking his head, regretfully.

Porthos refrained from asking how the lady had met her end. Aramis did look genuinely sad. So he merely raised his cup;

"To Madame de Bouvier, then."

Aramis tapped his cup to Porthos's and smiled.

"To Madame," he said, softly.

Thinking it may be a story for another time, Porthos drew out a pack of cards and started to shuffle.

"Well, we're off duty now, so, let's play," he grinned, portioning the cards between them and laying the rest of the pack face down on the table.

"Why not?" Aramis said, brightening and reaching for the flagon.

An hour later, on the midday strike of the bell of Notre Dame, d'Artagnan rode through the archway.

Seeing his two friends, he gave them a smirk and an elegant wave, before dismounting and leading his horse into the stable. Even though the stable boy waited, d'Artagnan liked to settle his horse himself, dry her off, and feed her before taking refreshment himself.

"'e's been practising that wave," Porthos muttered, waving his cup in d'Artagnan's general direction,

Aramis turned to look at the stable doors, now standing open, before turning back and leaning across the table toward his large friend.

"No doubt our young friend has been practising many things," he said, conspiratorially, his voice dropping out of earshot of any passing Musketeers.

"Well as long as 'e gets his sleep and keeps 'is strength up, that can only be a good thing," Porthos replied, with mock seriousness, as the two chinked cups. With that, d'Artagnan came striding toward them, pulling off his gloves.

"One, two, three," he counted, as he approached Aramis and Porthos a little later. "One more to come."

"I think we can discount Athos's company tonight," Aramis replied. "I'm sure he'll be back before Friday. His negotiation skills are exemplary."

"I'll report to the Captain, then," d'Artagnan said, tucking his gloves in his belt and heading for the stairs.

On his return a short while later, Porthos pushed some cards over to him and laughed at the young man's expression.

"Don't worry, we're not playin' for money," Porthos said.

When d'Artagnan relaxed, Porthos laughed. "That's for tonight, at The Wren."

oOo

At the Garrison, life went on for the next two days and Friday evening saw them sitting at their table once more, awaiting the arrival of their fourth. The sun set and shadows fell around the courtyard. Two empty bottles of wine stood on the table. An unopened bottle awaited the attention of their missing friend. Conversation had become a little muted and Aramis finally cast a glance up above them to the balcony, before pushing himself up and taking the steps to their Captain's office.

Treville called "Enter," at the second knock. Once inside, Aramis found his Captain in deep thought at his desk.

"Athos is late," Aramis said, when Treville did not raise his head.

"I'm aware," Treville said, reaching for a message that had arrived earlier.

He handed it over to Aramis and sat back wearily.

"Raymond Vachon," Aramis said, after reading the document.

Treville's chair creaked as he sat back.

"There is some evidence," he began, not waiting for Aramis to finish, "That he and two others have been engaged in all manner of law breaking, Aramis. It has been brought to my attention that some of the local landowners want them stopped. The King is losing patience with their petitions. They are petty criminals, but there is some evidence that they have now graduated from robbery to murder. The Cardinal has the Red Guard patrolling various areas but it would be expedient for the Musketeers to join in the search."

"Richelieu would like nothing better than take the credit for their capture," Aramis said softly, looking up and meeting Treville's tired gaze.

Treville did not reply at first, but then added, "His Eminence is impatient for the response from the Baron de Bouvier."

Aramis dropped the parchment on his desk, as Treville changed the subject.

"You think the two are connected?" he said.

"Probably not," Treville finally said.

"But, you're worried," Aramis said, frowning.

"It's nothing," Treville replied, gruffly. "Go and get some rest, Aramis," he replied. "Or whatever you intend to do with your evening."

"I'll let you know when Athos returns," Aramis said, more than a little worried himself. "He's not _that_ late," he added.

Treville pursed his lips before looking up and meeting his gaze.

He gave Aramis a single nod of his head and raised his hand to hurry him on his way. Aramis stepped outside, deep in thought. Whatever he had intended to do with his evening, his plans had changed. Despite his friend not being "too late," he would not now leave the Garrison until Athos returned.

**To be continued …**

oOo

**A/N:**

For Porthos's mission to collect taxes, I have used the name of the man who Dumas is purported to have based the character of Athos on: Armand de Sillegue d'Athos 'dAutevielle (1615-1644), just for fun.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **A longer chapter today, as we catch up with events in the barn ...

oOo

**Chapter Six**

It wasn't the isolation that gnawed at Athos. He had always been comfortable with his own company, to a point. It was the inactivity, the sheer boredom. The inability to plan, for he had seen no opening that he could exploit without putting the old man in danger. The fact that Silas had withstood the onslaught of these three as his village had been slowly decimated, had spoken of a bravery and a single-mindedness that Athos appreciated.

More than anything, he wished to relieve Silas of his shackles at their hands, and so he held his tongue.

When they shouted in his face, he turned it away. When they ate their food sitting on the floor in front of him, he ignored his griping belly. When they threw water on him, he welcomed it. When the two youngest sat cross-legged across from him and made sport of throwing stones at him, he ducked his head to avoid injury to his eyes and face and gritted his teeth as the sharp stones bit into his scalp and his neck.

He could not afford to lose his temper and yet, his silence infuriated them. The only saving grace was their drunkenness which made their wits dull and made them tire easily.

So far, he had withstood them, but he knew it would not last as, from his own experience with drunkenness, anger was never far from the surface but it did not mean he would not take any opportunity he could to defend himself, rather than attack.

But he knew that things did not always go to plan in such circumstances.

He could get a little sleep by drawing his knees up in order to rest his head. The rope between his wrists behind the post was long enough to lay on his side. Had they tied his wrists together, he would not have been unable to move at all. Perhaps they wanted him to try and retaliate, but it was more likely they did it so they could manhandle him to his feet and when he fell, he would still be tethered. They were taking no chances. He had given up trying to free himself, rubbing the skin on his wrists raw.

Tethered as he was, they could taunt him too; holding out a piece of food, usually bread, only to withdraw it when he finally reached for it. He had eventually stopped reaching.

Once, Raymond had stood in front of him, eating a freshly roasted rabbit leg, the smell of which had driven him half mad. Smiling, Raymond had reached out and run his thumb roughly over Athos's bottom lip. Athos had pulled his head away, but the lingering faint taste was not unwelcome. Raymond had then run the now-picked bone down his cheek before laughing when Athos closed his eyes. Raymond turned away then, tossing the bone behind him, where Athos could see it. Stripped bare of meat as it was, it made his empty stomach twist.

The heat was oppressive during the day; his shirt adhering to his back and he sat hunched forward for much of the afternoon, welcoming the cooler temperature of the evening. His bones were stiffening though through lack of use, even though he tried to flex his muscles as much as possible. A weakness was spreading through him and his throat was dust dry for most of the day. As much as he welcomed Silas, the fear was that one time, he would not come, and so he made himself accept that early on. Every visit from him was a bonus.

The anger he tried so hard to suppress was simmering in his blood. If it came to it, he would fight them and probably die in the act, but that was infinitely preferable to meeting his death tied to a post.

The only time Athos saw daylight was when he was taken outside to relieve himself, which wasn't often, given that they gave him little water and only the odd hunk of bread. Athos ate very slowly and with apparent little interest, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of appearing needy, when his belly screamed for him to shove it down as fast as he could.

At such times, there were two pistols trained on him; Henri's and Phillipe's, as he made his way under the trees. On this occasion, he found a stone and, as his hands were free, he wrapped it in his fist.

When they ordered him back, he stepped through the undergrowth and when Phillipe got too close and prodded him in the back with his pistol, Athos promptly whirled around, knocking the pistol from his hand and throwing a punch at him. His stone-enclosed fist provided enough force to knock Phillipe off his feet, leaving him sprawled on the ground, rubbing his face. However, while Athos was catching his breath, Henri stepped swiftly forward from behind and threw a choke-hold on him, cutting off his air.

When the two brothers dragged him senseless back into the barn, Raymond took one look at his brother's bruised cheekbone and laughed, rubbing his hands together.

"Oh, he's a dangerous one, lads," he laughed, "We are going to have to be careful with this one."

When Athos opened his eyes, he was slumped at the base of the post, tied once more. He didn't appear to have any more injuries but he knew they would not be so careless in future. It had been worth it though, and for his part, caution in these circumstances was not a word he recognised. It was merely a line in the sand that he would measure, and shift when he could.

Now feeling a movement next to him, Athos flinched, but the old man placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and he opened his eyes and studied him for a few moments.

Silas had a shock of white hair. Despite his infirmity, his back was straight. He had no beard, being neatly shaved. He wore a thin scarf tied around his neck, despite the season. His clothes were clean and his boots were in good order. Athos had wondered how he coped with only one arm, but it did not seem to hinder him. His eyes were the brightest blue and he had a self-contained manner about him. Even at their first meeting, when Silas had spoken to Raymond the morning he had arrived, he had shown no fear, just a pragmatic attitude that even Raymond did not seem to take offence to. He had no doubt though, that Raymond would not hesitate to kill the old man should he see fit; Athos had seen evidence of it that had led to him giving himself into Raymond's hands, but Silas seemed to know his boundaries with the three. That was a comfort of sorts. You didn't live to such an old age without being able to take care of yourself, he thought.

Silas was obviously used to the three men's ways. By his calculation, and from what Silas had said, they had come to the village after Christmas time. It was now August, the crops had died, and the villagers had gone. All except this one. It still puzzled Athos as to why Silas remained.

"You should not risk yourself by coming," Athos said, his voice dry. Silas always gave him water and the small amount of food he managed to carry upon his person.

"You said you were going to Paris, Monsieur Athos," Silas was saying now, ignoring Athos's entreaty. "Where had you come from?"

Athos thought. His memory was vague. His head throbbed and he felt a wave of nausea at the effort of trying to remember. Flashes of a large house, a lake …

He frowned in confusion.

Silas waited, watching.

This was the fourth of his furtive visits. The second time, he found Athos soaked to the skin. He had no doubt that they had thrown water on him to revive him at some point. The heat in the barn was oppressive, and his clothes would soon dry. Had it been winter, he would surely die.

Each time Silas came, Athos was hurt a little more. A cut here, a bruise there. The brothers were obviously taking their time with him. So far, Silas's visits had gone undetected. They watched him as he moved around the village and the track, but did not touch him. Perhaps they enjoyed his agitation at being unable to help. Silas for his part, kept under cover as much as he could. His cottage in the abandoned village had become a refuge over the months, but the gnawing pain he felt at the brother's recent cruel actions within his barn had made him bolder and all the more determined to bring Athos whatever comfort he could.

Each time the Vachons returned, they lashed out at Athos. It had become their slow game. Crippled as he was, all the old man could do was try and keep the Musketeer alive until help came.

The trouble was, he didn't know where that rescue would come from, or when. If indeed, it came at all.

Now, he gently prompted the confused, injured man;

"Monsieur Athos. Where had you come from?" he repeated, gently.

Athos opened his good eye.

"I don't remember," he finally admitted.

"It doesn't matter," Silas said again, and Athos nodded, glad to forget but comforted by the old man's visit. Silas's visits were always quick, by necessity. He had started to quietly appear when the thugs had gone and he always brought something.

"Here," he whispered now, holding something to Athos's mouth.

Warily, Athos raised his head, as the old man tapped his lips with whatever he held.

"Cheese," the old man said, "Just a little, to keep up your strength. But there is more, if you can keep it down."

Stains in the earth to the side of him suggested that some of his other offerings had not stayed in his stomach. A punch in the gut would do that, the old man thought sadly.

Athos opened his mouth and felt his bruised lip pull as he accepted the morsel. He was seated, having slipped down the post after Raymond had delivered his parting gift, a punch to his ribs. Thereafter, breathing had been somewhat harder.

Athos chewed carefully. It tasted good and he held it in his mouth, relishing the flavour. The inside of his mouth was swollen from an earlier punch to his cheek, delivered by the smaller of Raymond's brothers. A brave move, as his opponent was tied up. A fact Athos had quickly pointed out to him that morning, which earned him another punch.

Athos finally swallowed, and grimaced.

"Can you feel my ribs?" he asked through clenched teeth. "Tell me if they are broken?"

Silas hesitated to touch him. He was bruised and bleeding, but if it helped Athos to know, he would do it. He felt terrible that he could not help further, but if Raymond knew he was trying to ease Athos's way, they would both be killed. Looking quickly behind him at the doors, expecting to see Raymond at any moment, he placed a hand on Athos's side and ran it carefully along his chest, old fingers probing.

"It doesn't seem so," Silas finally said, relief evident in his voice. "But there may be one or two that are cracked."

"As long as they are not broken," Athos sighed, dropping his head back against the post, he squinted at Silas through his good eye.

"What a pair we are," he murmured, a faint smile on his lips.

"Do you have family?" Silas hesitated, not wishing to pry.

Again, Athos struggled to reply.

The old man put his hand gently on his shoulder and squeezed.

"It doesn't matter," he said, kindly.

"Brothers," Athos said, as a face came to him, quickly followed by another. Brown eyes shining at him. "I have brothers," he murmured, his head dropping once more.

"Then, you are blessed," the man said, a smile in his voice.

Athos did not reply. Right now, he felt anything but blessed.

Silas broke off another piece of the soft cheese and lifted it to Athos's lips, before breaking into a chuckle, when it was accepted. A chuckle which ended in a rattling cough.

"Are you ill?" Athos asked, when Silas had got his breath back.

"Just old, my friend," Silas sighed. "Just old."

Athos hummed;

"It comes to us all," he said, closing his eyes.

Silas nodded. "Well, you have a long way to go to catch me, Monsieur."

He pulled a water skin from his shoulder, where he had slung it earlier, before setting out to the barn. Holding it up, he tipped it and let Athos take a long drink. He did not know when he would be able to come back and any spillage would dry quickly in the heat.

Athos shifted and emitted a pained groan, and Silas was suddenly reluctant to leave him.

"The year was 1589," Silas suddenly said. "The year I lost my arm. The old King triumphed at Arques, as you will know."

Athos raised his head and caught the look in the old man's eye.

"So I understand," he answered, through gritted teeth.

"I imagine you were a studious boy who liked to read about that kind of thing," Silas continued.

Athos closed his eyes, pain etched on his face, but Silas could tell he was listening, as he smiled faintly. A boyhood memory had in fact flared in Athos's mind. A distant memory of sitting in the orchard, his back to an old apple tree, reading an account of the battle, given to him by his father.

"We were south east of Dieppe," Silas was saying.

"In the Arque river valley," Athos nodded, eyes still closed.

"That's it," Silas encouraged.

"The Duke of Mayenne was on his way?" Athos continued.

"Charles of Lorraine, yes. The oppressor, coming from the east," Silas said, now lost in the memory. "But King Henry, he knew Mayenne would have to cross the Eauline river and then the Bethune to reach the road to Dieppe. Henry decided to defend the river crossing at Arques. We were outnumbered but we had the guns of the castle to support us. Those cannons were in a good position, overlooking the valley."

When he stopped, Athos shifted, and opened his eyes.

"Carry on," he murmured.

"Well," Silas continued, "Mayenne attacked, sure enough, in a thick fog, no less. He had German mercenaries with him, who would pretend to desert. It was a good tactic. Henry had Swiss guard with him and they _did_ fall for it and the Maladerie, part of our defence lines that ran near a leprosy hospital - a strategic building in the valley - was taken. Henry's regiments joined the Swiss guard to restore the situation. And then, Athos," Silas said, his eyes twinkling, "the fog lifted. And the guns started up again, right into Mayenne's advancing forces. The Maladerie was recaptured and Mayenne was defeated. By then, though, I'd already had this shot off," he said, lifting his stump. "Later, I heard that reinforcements started to arrive, sent to Henry by sea from Good Queen Bess of England. So that made old Henry bold and he attempted a second siege of Paris, but Mayenne came back to defend the city.

I missed that," Silas finished. "The after effects of the amputation to tidy this up," he added, soberly,"finished my soldiering, as you can imagine. Though they were grateful, my mates."

"In what way?" Athos asked, curious at his choice of words.

Silas looked back at the doors of the barn.

"I will tell you later," he said.

And with that, he gave Athos a final drink and rose unsteadily to his feet.

"I have to go," he said then. "I will try and come back later, when they sleep."

"Silas," Athos murmured, shaking his hair from his eyes, "Thank you."

"Try to hold on," the old man said, sadly. "Your brothers will come for you."

With that, he slung the water skin back on his shoulder and turned to make his way out. He had taken Athos's mind off his pain for a few moments, but the situation remained grim.

Athos opened his good eye and watched his retreating back, catching a glimpse of the early morning sun, before the door closed and he was lost in shadows again.

**To be continued …**

oOo

**A/N: **For those who are interested:

For this story, I assumed that Athos was thirty three years old and therefore born in 1597 as the series was set in 1630. Silas was eighty in 1630, therefore he was born in 1550 and was thirty nine when he lost his arm at Arques. He had, therefore lived with only one arm for forty one years.

The Battle of Arques occurred on 15-19 September 1589 between the French royal forces of Henry IV of France (Louis's father) and troops of the Catholic League during the eighth and final war of the French Wars of Religion (1585-1598).


	7. Chapter 7

In which Athos gets a little satisfaction, and Silas makes a decision.

**Chapter Seven**

That evening was the worst yet.

Any thoughts of possible escape he may have been harbouring left Silas when he crept back after dark, as Raymond and his thuggish brothers returned from another afternoon of drinking.

Silas had heard the men shouting and whooping earlier and had held his breath, waiting for the men to come out. When they didn't, he had walked quietly, with increasing trepidation, back to the barn and peered through a crack in the door. What he saw angered him so much he almost rushed inside, before catching himself. It would serve no purpose. He was a one-armed eighty year old man. They would only kill him and their prisoner. So he continued to watch and bear witness.

Raymond was sitting on an old bale of straw, gnawing at an apple and watching as his siblings drove Athos around the perimeter of the barn.

They had cut him loose, only to taunt him.

Athos walked with a straight back and if he slowed, one of the two men flicked a sword blade at his leg, hitting him above the top of his boots on his thigh. Each time, Athos hardly faltered but a steady, thin line of blood followed in his wake. Once more, the two younger men were laughing like children.

Silas looked back at Raymond. He was well out of the way when Athos passed him, but he had a pistol trained on him. So Athos kept walking; it must have been for one hour, maybe two. Raymond was now lounging back and looking bored, hardly participating, his eyes closing. They were all drunk and Silas hoped the ale would finally get the better of them and they would either fall asleep or go.

"You're a quiet one," Raymond called out, as he tracked Athos's slow approach toward him.

Athos raised his head and his eyes slid toward him. His did not respond, merely holding his gaze as he walked passed him. Raymond threw the apple core at his back as Athos walked on. Truth be told, he welcomed the movement, if he could just push the pain to the back of his mind. His thoughts turned to his brothers, who he knew by now, would be anxious for his return. Perhaps they would set out to the Baron's estates to start their enquiries. If that was the case, it would add two days to their search. He took in a shuddering breath. They would not know where to start to look. He could not find fault in that but it was a bleak thought.

Athos was too exhausted to try to get the better of any of them, as a further day of captivity was telling on him.

"No pleas for mercy, Athos?" Raymond persisted.

"I doubt you know what the word means," Athos replied, quietly.

Henri stuck his foot out suddenly, catching Athos as he passed. Drawing on his training, Athos twisted as he fell; falling on his back. Partly winded, he closed his eyes. Feigning unconsciousness would give him a few precious moments to recover.

As was their custom, they dowsed him with water whenever they punched him into oblivion. At those times, Athos had sometimes managed to get some of it down his throat before giving signs he had regained his senses, but he had not been given much food and so he was becoming weaker and weaker.

Approaching footsteps and the sloshing of water in the bucket heralded an imminent dowsing and he readied himself. The cold water shocked him into rolling onto his side, but he did manage to get a mouthful, which he swilled around his mouth and swallowed. His ribs screamed in protest as he was pulled roughly to his feet, trying desperately not to cough. He was shoved forward onto the circuit once more and staggered a few paces before regaining his balance. Short of pointing out what a pointless exercise this was for all of them, be squared his shoulders and continued to place one foot in front of the other.

He was now limping badly, as the younger brothers kept targetting his knee.

Outside, Silas closed his eyes as Athos faltered once more. Now, he would have blood loss to contend with. The leg of his breeches was already soaked with blood and Silas thought if they punched him one more time, his ribs may indeed break. He clenched his fist at his side and put his forehead to the rough timber of the barn as he breathed deeply, trying to think. What to do? What to do? Then, as he was about to burst in, he heard a commotion and looked up.

Athos, seeming to draw strength from somewhere, suddenly turned to his left and with a roar, he drove his shoulder into Henri's chest, sending them both crashing to the ground. Pinned under Athos's weight, Henri was powerless and Athos began to use his fists, pummelling his face and chest. Silas watched in satisfaction as a blow struck Henri on the bridge of his nose and he howled. It only lasted a few moments, before Raymond and Phillipe were galvanised into action. Both quickly sobered and surging forward, they dragged Athos off Henri, who was screaming obscenities and flailing his arms in an attempt to rise.

Silas brightened at the sight, before Phillipe managed to hold Athos from behind and Raymond brought his knee up into his stomach; effectively winding him. At the same time, he threw his fist at Athos's temple and they both let go, as Athos crashed to the ground. By this time, Henri had got unsteadily to his feet. With both hands holding his bleeding nose, he kicked Athos a final time. Athos would not feel that kick, however, as Silas saw that he was senseless. This time they did not throw water on him. They dragged him back to the post and tied him up once more.

Raymond grabbed Athos's hair and pulled his head back to peer at his slack face as Phillipe re-tied the rope around the back of the post. Satisfied, Raymond ordering his brothers out.

Silas slipped through the doors and back into the shadows of the barn as they all rode off.

There was still fight in the Musketeer, but time was running out.

There was only one option left for Silas.

He would walk the distance to the next village and seek help.

Hitching the water skin up on his shoulder, he pushed the barn doors open and made his faltering way into the vast, empty barn.

Amazingly, Athos raised his head.

"Silas?"

"Yes," the old man whispered, his voice infinitely sad.

His decision was made. Come what may, he would ensure he did his utmost now to find help. Before he went, though, he would share his secret. Something may eventually be salvaged from all this pointless chaos and brutality, but if it was not to be, at least he will have done his best.

Athos had shown nothing but honour, and by the soldier's code, he must do the same.

oOo

Later, when the Vachons couldn't find the old man, they went back into the barn. Pulling Athos to his feet, they slapped his face and asked where the old man had gone.

"How would I know?" Athos managed to growl. "I have not seen him since you shot the water barrel to pieces and then threatened to murder him."

"Raymond," Phillipe panicked, "We'd better get out of here. He can't have gone far. We can track him."

Raymond was still staring at Athos, who held his gaze defiantly, a look of utter boredom on his face.

He reached up and grabbed Athos's hair.

"No," he said to the brother at his back. "Let the old fool go. If he has any sense, he will be long gone."

He tilted his head to examine Athos's face further.

"Does this hurt?" he asked, tapping Athos's closed eye.

Wincing, Athos pulled his head back, but Raymond only tightened his hand in his hair.

"Having trouble seeing?" he continued, as he pulled a thin blade from his belt.

Athos watched him as he held the blade up.

"Maybe," Raymond said, "I should just take your eye."

"Do it," Henri said, his face bruised and his nose swollen from Athos's attack.

Raymond put the tip of the blade to the skin beneath his black, swollen eye.

Athos tensed, holding his breath, waiting for the terrible act.

But the knife disappeared and Raymond laughed, before putting the blade to Athos's ear and slicing his earlobe.

Athos's only response was the flare of his nostrils and tightening of his jaw muscles.

"No," Raymond hummed, watching in fascination as a trail of blood made its way down Athos's neck and under his shirt collar. "I will let you see your suffering."

Taking a thin scarf from around his throat, he thrust it between Athos's teeth and tied it tightly.

"String him up," he snarled, stepping back.

Athos's weak attempt to struggle did him no good, as he was freed briefly, only for his hands to be pulled above his head and his wrists tied to a cross bar, his feet now barely reaching the ground.

Athos realised he would have to take his full weight on his wrists when his strength finally left him. He was also even more vulnerable to whatever they wanted to do now. He closed his eyes and breathed as deeply as he could to calm his mind. If this was to be how he died, he would not give them the satisfaction of showing fear or uttering a plea for mercy, both of which he knew they expected. His chest burned with the stretched position of his shoulders. His knee throbbed from an earlier kick and he could not feel his left foot, no doubt due to blood loss from the numerous cuts to his thigh.

However, the fact that Silas had escaped them, and the secret he had imparted to Athos before he left, would keep his mind focussed. He was having difficulty concentrating though and could not remember how far the next village was, or even if he had come across another village on his way to this one. He had to hold on. That was all he had to do now. Hold on.

"That's better," Raymond said. "But, just in case," he added, gripping his hair once more, he slammed Athos's head back into the post.

Athos's head bounced off the wooden post with a sickening thud and his head fell forward, chin dropping to his chest. Raymond released his hair and reached up and patted his unconscious prisoner on the cheek.

"Now we go," Raymond said quietly to his two brothers.

"Or, we could kill him," Henri replied, drawing his sword.

"Kill a Musketeer?" Raymond replied. "That's treason," he sneered.

"He'll be dead soon enough," Henri said, with a low laugh.

Turning away, they walked out of the barn, mounted up, and rode away.

**To be continued ...**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"**Flagon Noir" Tavern:**

"We don't want any trouble in here, Monsieur!" the landlord shouted, from his place behind the bar.

The three men had come in at midday and had been drinking heavily. Now, they were throwing their weight around and harassing anyone who dared to look at them. One of them swaggered over and slammed his hand on the bar. The man's face was bruised, his nose swollen. He looked like he had taken a recent pummelling. The landlord was not a nervous man, but he was outnumbered and he needed to keep his barmaid safe, as she was his niece.

"Then, give us more ale!" the man shouted at him, inches from his face.

The landlord sighed and went to his barrel, only to find it empty.

"I need to bring another barrel through," he grunted.

"Then be quick about it," another of the men, their leader by the look of him, called from across the room.

The landlord looked around and met the gaze of one of his regular customers, who rose from his seat and came forward to help. Together, the two men left the bar and went through the door at the back and into the small, enclosed yard.

"The Lord knows I am not a rich man," the landlord grunted, as he rolled the barrel off its base and picked up a wooden tap. "But I would forgo their coin if they left right now. In fact," he added as he hammered the tap into the barrel, "I wish I had never set eyes on them."

The other man grunted as they both took hold of the upper rim of the barrel and began turning it toward the door.

"I've been listening to them," the other man whispered, as they hauled the barrel over the back step.

"You should be careful," the landlord said, meeting his gaze with a frown.

"We've had a lot of trouble around here, Martin," his customer continued. "You know that. You know that lot might be responsible."

The landlord stopped in his tracks. It was true, there had been untold disruption over the summer, and at least two of his regulars had been murdered and left in the wood, stripped of their money and horses. These men were not strangers to him, but he had seen how their behaviour had become more erratic of late. They were drinking more and becoming much more openly aggressive, especially over the last few days.

"What makes you think so?" he whispered, cautiously; intent on keeping his voice as low as possible.

Inside the bar, there was a noise as if a chair had been smashed.

The customer wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before continuing.

"They're boasting about besting a soldier," he replied. "They're holdin' him somewhere."

"A soldier?" the landlord replied, frowning.

He knew many fine men who had become soldiers, out of necessity but also willing to take the old King's coin out of desperation. The majority were good, honest men.

"A soldier _with a pauldron_," the man hissed, urgently.

"A Musketeer?" the landlord replied, shocked at the revelation. "That's treason," he added. "Sure as assaulting the King himself!"

"Aye, well, they have him stashed somewhere," the man replied. "Not only that, but they're talking about burnin' down the village when they get back, and fleeing."

"What about the Musketeer?" the landlord said, sweat beginning to pour off his forehead, both at the revelation and the fact they were taking too long in satisfying the men currently smashing up his bar.

The customer ominously raked his thumb across his throat and grimaced.

"Where are they keeping this man?"

"I don't know, they never said. Just that they had bested him and that he had given himself up for an old man."

"Musketeers are men of honour," the landlord replied.

"Hurry up with that ale!" an angry voice came from the other room.

"Coming, Sirs," the landlord shouted instantly. "Just having a little trouble with the tap."

"Did they give the old man's name?"

"No, just that he was old, and only had one arm, so wouldn't be able to get the man free."

"One arm?" the landlord said, looking shocked. "That's old Silas. He's an honourable man. This tavern is here because of him. He came back from the war and got his village up and running again. Everyone in the area benefited. We need to help."

They could not tarry any longer and finally rolled the barrel of ale back into the tavern and behind the bar. The landlord wiped his hands on his apron and shook hands with his customer, his eyes darting to the three men who were lounging in an alcove and laughing insanely. The place was empty now, his other patrons having slunk away.

"Thank you for your help," the landlord said loudly, for the benefit of his three unwanted patrons. "My regards to your wife," he added, as the man fastened his jerkin and made for the door.

As he began to pull three jugs of ale from the new barrel, the landlord cast a quick glance through his side window, to see his customer mount his horse and ride away.

Not toward his homestead, but along the track to the next village.

As he carried the ale over to the table, he thought about what his customer had said. There had been patrols in the area, looking, he was now sure, for the three men sitting before him in his bar.

Word had got around that both the Cardinal's Red Guard and the King's Musketeers were searching for these men and that fact alone, may embolden those who may otherwise keep to themselves. The last thing anyone wanted though, was for trained soldiers to become established in the area, searching people and throwing their weight around. The sooner the gang could be caught, the better. Villagers had been forced from their homes and lives had been lost in order that those three could take what they wanted and control those who could not fight back.

He hoped his friend could reach the next village and find out the soldier's whereabouts so they could raise the alarm and help not only old Silas, but one of the King's elite.

oOo

Later that afternoon:

Silas took off his red hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

He had been walking for what seemed like hours. In happier times, he had ridden to the next village, but since his neighbours had fled, they had taken the animals, at Silas's insistence, and his own old horse had died a few weeks ago. He had felt confident at setting out, buoyed by the fact he was helping Athos. The sooner he could reach the village, the sooner he hoped he could get help. He flipped his hat back on his head and squared his shoulders as he increased his pace, his heart thumping in his chest.

As he walked, he tried not to think of what Athos might be enduring back in his barn. He pulled the water skin from his shoulder and took a deep gulp. Finally, after what seemed like an age, he saw the first building of the village up ahead. There was still a way to go, as he knew that house was at the edge of the village, but maybe there would be someone there, who could help.

Sadly, the cottage was empty and he paused for only a few moments, before pressing on. There was at least another half hour of walking before he came to other buildings in the hamlet. His own village used to be like this one, full of productive villagers, he thought, before Raymond had ridden in one morning and never left.

Ahead, he could hear raised voices and as he emerged from the wooded track, he saw four Red Guards, talking to a dismounted rider. The rider was speaking urgently to the Guards, and all five looked up as Silas came into view.

"Silas?" the man said, as he approached.

"Yes, I am he," Silas replied, looking at the man in confusion. "Do I know you, Monsieur?"

"I come from the Flagon Noir Tavern," the man explained. "I was telling the guards about three men who are causing a disturbance. They are boasting about holding a soldier captive."

"Yes!" Silas cried, reaching out and grabbing the man's jacket, before looking at the Red Guard, "He is in my barn. I fear for his life," Silas staggered a little then and the man caught his elbow.

"See?" the tavern patron said to the Red Guard who appeared to be their leader. "I told you. Here is your proof," he said, pointing at Silas.

The Red Guard had seemed reluctant to listen to the man, but in view of the old man's appearance, they could surely not ignore him now?

Suddenly the sound of incoming horses made them all turn;

"Musketeers," one of the Red Guard sneered. They had not been too keen on searching for their quarry but now it looked as if it could not be avoided.

"What's goin' on?" the large dark-skinned Musketeer called out as he and his two companions pulled their horses to a halt.

"This man is reporting that three men who have been terrorising the vicinity are in his tavern, causing chaos," the Red Guard leader reluctantly replied.

"And they have been holding a Musketeer prisoner in my barn," the old man wheezed, bending over and pulling in air.

"You wait here," the Red Guard said to the old man. "Guard him," he said to two of his remaining men. "We will be back with these brigands, and _you_," he said to Silas, "will accompany us back to Paris as a witness."

"Wait," Aramis shouted, in exasperation, "Where is this barn!"

The civilian had mounted and was preparing to head back to the tavern with the Red Guard. He pointed down the track that Silas had taken.

"The next village," he shouted, as he rode off with the Guard.

Porthos looked at the track, before shouting after them, "How far?" but they were gone.

d'Artagnan spurred his horse and took off down the track, closely followed by Aramis and Porthos.

Behind them, Silas straightened and made his way unsteadily to the remaining Red Guards, who had taken the opportunity of taking a seat in the shade.

It had all happened very quickly. He wished the Musketeers had waited, so that he could direct them properly. Looking up at the dust that hung in the air from their horses hooves, he silently wished them God Speed.

For they would need the Good Lord on their side and speed would be of the essence.

**To be continued ...**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan rode on.

They had been incredibly lucky to have come across the Red Guard as they had. If Athos was in this other village, he must have deviated from the main route on his return to Paris from the Baron de'Bouvier's estate. They had been, in fact, on their way to the Baron to see if Athos had been detained with him, and would not have known Athos's whereabouts if they had not been drawn to the gathering of Red Guard.

Under normal circumstances, Red Guard and Musketeers liked to keep a healthy distance from each other, but after Treville had confirmed they both had an interest in finding Raymond Vachon and his cohorts, it had becoming increasingly possible that Athos had fallen foul of them. Moreover, they were sure that the Baron would have sent word if anything had occurred that has prevented Athos from returning, so this new lead was promising.

"How far?" Porthos shouted now as they rode, newly invigorated in their search.

They had taken a turn, only to come to a dead end.

They had no idea what the village was called or where the barn was in the village.

Turning back, they retraced their steps. In the height of the summer, the tracks were overgrown and the branches of any trees that lined the tracks were in full leaf, which made it difficult to scout ahead.

"Can't be far now," Aramis shouted back, slowing his horse a few moments later as a lone cottage came into view.

They kept a slower pace as they passed it, but it was empty; there was no-one around to ask directions. Going a little further, more buildings came into view. There was no smoke rising from chimneys, no sound of inhabitants and no animals.

"What the 'ell is this?" Porthos grunted in frustration as they rode slowly through the whole village, looking for any sign of a barn.

"There's no barn here!" d'Artagnan said impatiently, stopping his horse and turning around in his saddle. "It's deserted."

A few pigeons sat in the branches of a nearby tree, but they were the only living creatures they saw, and soon, they were through the village and back on the track.

"Have we taken another wrong turning?" Aramis said, beginning to look flustered. He took off his hat and wafted it in front of his face, running a hand through his unruly hair. Suddenly, he raised himself in his saddle and shouted.

"_Athos!"_

He was met with the sound of the pigeons taking flight, but nothing else. d'Artagnan rode ahead a little, before turning to address them.

"There are fields up ahead," he called. "Fields mean barns," he added, hopefully.

"Lead on, farm boy," Porthos shouted.

They spurred their horses now and headed toward the fields. A few moments later the trees along the lane thinned out and the three friends could see two fields ahead. But they were uncultivated. In fact, they were as dead of life as the village had been.

"_Athos!"_ Porthos yelled, but to no avail.

d'Artagnan left the track then and walked his horse into the field. Aramis and Porthos stayed behind, looking around warily.

Ahead, something seemed to catch d'Artagnan's eye and he dismounted, dropping into a crouch.

"He's found something," Aramis said, tersely.

d'Artagnan had in fact, found a stash of empty wine bottles that littered the side of the field, in a spot beneath an over-hanging tree. His picked one up and held it up to his friends.

"Just an empty bottle," Porthos grunted, as he turned in his saddle to look back the way they had come. "Maybe we should go back. We've obviously missed it."

Suddenly, d'Artagnan waved his arm and yelled.

"There's a barn over there!"

He had thrown one of the bottles into the trees in disgust and suddenly seen the shape of a building in the field behind. Shoving his foot in the stirrup, he quickly mounted up and eased the horse through a gap in the trees.

Aramis and Porthos needed no encouragement to spur their horses onto the field to catch up with their young friend, and, side by side, the three friends made their way to the barn in the distance, dust billowing around them from the dry earth.

Looming up in front of them, as they made their cautious approach, the barn looked as bleak as the village.

"Is this it?" Aramis asked, desperation now taking root.

"Only one way to find out," Porthos replied as he dismounted and walked his horse the final short distance, dusting himself down as he went.

Soon, he was joined by d'Artagnan and Aramis, also dismounted and looking around.

There was a broken water barrel next to the large double doors. Porthos peered at it before pushing his booted toe into the wooden slats of the barrel.

"There's a hole in it. It's been blasted," he grunted, before looking up at them.

They each unsheathed their swords and made their way to the barn.

After the bright sunshine, it was dark in the shade of the barn, and Aramis mimed for Porthos and d'Artagnan to scout around the side and back to find any attached buildings while he went cautiously toward the large double doors. They were unbarred and he pushed one of the doors open on creaking hinges.

d'Artagnan and Porthos joined him moments later having both circled the barn and found no other buildings, or exits.

Side by side, the three walked into the depth of the barn.

oOo

Once inside the dark interior, at first, they saw nothing. The barn was empty and smelled stale. Several small holes in the roof sent thin shafts of sunlight down into the main area, pooling on the earthen ground. To their left was what looked like a covered hulk of machinery; ahead of them, nothing.

Without a word, they split up; Porthos taking the left, d'Artagnan the right and Aramis continued on a central path through the middle of the barn. Each held their swords as they walked, for it was a shadowed space that could hide any number of assailants.

It was eerily silent though, save for their boots on the hard packed earth.

And then, they all heard something.

Laboured, but there. The sound of ragged breathing.

They all stopped in their tracks.

As their eyes and ears further adjusted, they saw a post at the end of the barn. On closer inspection, they saw that there was someone on the other side of it, visible only by a glimpse of shirt at either side of the post and up-stretched arms; where hands were tied to a crossbeam above with a thick rope.

They all instantly knew who it was.

"He's here!" Aramis shouted, breaking into a run.

d'Artagnan and Porthos quickly followed. They each rounded the post and converged on him shoulder to shoulder. Held by the ropes above him, Athos was gagged and unconscious, his chin on his chest, his face hidden by his hair. Coming to a momentary halt, they stared in shocked silence, before Porthos pulled out his paring knife and, moving back around the post, he reached up.

Aramis pulled off his glove and reached out a trembling hand to untie the gag, throwing it to the ground in disgust. He pushed two fingers into Athos's throat, seeking a pulse. After an agonising moment, he squeezed his eyes shut and released a relieved breath that indicated to Porthos and d'Artagnan that they were in time.

d'Artagnan looked wildly back toward the barn door, half expecting to be discovered, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, ready to guard his injured friend and brother.

Aramis pulled off his remaining glove and reached up, placing his hand on Athos's forehead. Easing his head up, he peered into his face. He sucked in a breath at the sight of the vivid black-blue bruise beneath his eye, the eyelid swollen. Holding his breath, he gently traced his fingers down the side of his friend's face, feeling the swelling beneath his cheekbone, noting the bruised lips.

"Make haste, Porthos," he said, his voice cold with anger.

The weight of their brother's body on the ropes had pulled them so tight, Porthos was having difficulty cutting through the thick, twisted hemp. Ready for the moment he succeeded, Aramis and d'Artagnan supported Athos's body, putting a shoulder under each arm, the action bringing Athos to his senses with a painful, stifled cry and hitched breath.

Aramis and d'Artagnan made eye contact, their faces grim.

"It's us, Athos," Aramis soothed. "We're cutting you down. Hold on, just a little longer, brother."

"Hurry," d'Artagnan muttered, as Porthos continued to saw. It seemed to be taking forever. They were all breathing harshly now.

Porthos grunted in response. The rope was tarred in places, making it hard to cut. Aware he was causing Athos pain, his temper flared.

"I _am_ hurrying, dammit!" he growled low in his throat, the fingers of his free hand pulling at the stray cords.

Porthos cursed under his breath, and Aramis bent his knee and pulled a long thin blade from his boot, handing it quickly to Porthos, who threw his own knife down in disgust.

"Easy, easy," Aramis was whispering urgently as Athos tried to take his own weight, failing miserably as he could not pull his feet under him.

His breath was coming in gasps as his head hung down and d'Artagnan reached out to take his jaw and ease his head back to ease his breathing. With what looked like supreme effort, Athos managed to hold his head back and his breathing eased slightly.

d'Artagnan grunted as he continued to take Athos's weight.

Athos slowly turned his head and, for a moment, they stared into each other's eyes, neither comprehending how or why this had happened.

"Ready?" d'Artagnan whispered. They both knew he wasn't.

Athos blinked, slowly.

A look of despair swept over his face. It was not in his nature to show vulnerability, but in unguarded moments, his expression spoke volumes.

"I know," d'Artagnan said, softly enough for only Athos to hear.

"Nearly there!" Porthos shouted.

"Ready?" Aramis called then, his face turned toward Porthos.

"We won't let you fall," d'Artagnan said, louder now, as they waited for Porthos.

Athos closed his eyes and took a breath as he felt Aramis and d'Artagnan straighten and tighten their hold on him.

His brothers were not in his eye-line, though he felt them holding him and suddenly Porthos grunted as the rope was finally cut through and with a painful jerk, Athos stifled a scream as his wrists were freed and his tortured shoulders shot bolts of red hot pain through his muscles as his arms dropped. He slumped to his knees, saved from hitting the ground by a brother on each side, bearing his weight.

**To be continued ...**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Porthos was in front of Athos now, his worried face filling his vision. He wrapped his arms carefully around him and bore his weight as the others relinquished him. Athos's head fell forward once more, to rest in the crook of Porthos's neck. Porthos slowly sank down. Athos was now on his knees, arms hanging limply at his sides.

"The joints are still in place," Aramis said hurriedly, running his hands carefully but firmly over his shoulders.

"How?" d'Artagnan replied, incredulously.

They looked at where his feet had been, his boot heels having made a hollow in the packed earth at the base of the post.

"He dug in," Porthos replied, quietly. "For as long as he could."

Aramis moved quickly in front of Athos, reaching out and taking his face in his hands.

"Breathe, Athos," he said, urgently.

But Athos was done with it all.

Moving caused unbearable pain. Tied to the post for days, and finally with his hands above his head, trying to breathe against cracked ribs, with no water save the few drops of rain that had fallen through the thin thatch above him, and what little Silas had managed to pour down his throat, he gave himself up to the comfort and safety of his brothers.

The last thing he heard was Aramis, urgently calling his name.

Too late, he dropped painfully into oblivion.

oOo

"We need to get him to the Infirmary," d'Artagnan said.

Aramis looked up at him sharply.

"This _is_ the Infirmary for this night," he said, tersely. "We cannot move him yet."

Porthos reached out and squeezed Aramis's shoulder.

"Alright then" he nodded. "What do you need?"

"d'Artagnan, can you bring our cloaks in? And my kit?" Aramis said, looking at the young man, standing apart from them.

Glad to be of service, d'Artagnan hurried outside, returning a few moments later with the required items.

He laid two of the cloaks on the floor next to Athos, who was still being held by Porthos. As soon as d'Artagnan had everything in place, Aramis and Porthos lowered Athos onto the cloaks, while d'Artagnan slung the third cloak over the wooden slats of the nearby empty animal stalls.

"Let's see what we have," Aramis said softly, feeling around Athos's shoulder joints.

"Still in place," Aramis reaffirmed, more to himself than the others, before looking up. "Though the muscles may be torn."

"Good job he's out of it," Porthos grunted.

Aramis hummed in response as he continued his examination.

The upper leg of Athos's breeches had been sliced through in areas and was soaked in blood, his knee swollen.

"What on earth happened here!" Aramis whispered, desperately, picking carefully at the torn material.

"Seems he fell foul of some vicious bastards," Porthos growled.

"Then let's hope the Red Guard do their duty," d'Artagnan exclaimed.

Careful of moving Athos's painfully swollen shoulders, Aramis now rested one of Athos's hands on his chest and the other on his hip. He noted the skinned knuckles and sucked in a breath at the state of his thoroughly abraded wrists.

Shaking his head, he next he ran a hand over his scalp, noting patches of matted hair over several small cuts. Cupping his head, he felt a large lump on the back of his head and looked back at the post they had freed him from. There was a blood stain on the post and Athos's state was an indication of a head injury.

Porthos followed his gaze and moved to the post, rubbing his fingers at the stain. It had mostly dried, but his hand still came away sticky with blood.

"Whoever did this smacked 'is head against the post," Porthos growled, furiously, slamming his hand against the post.

"_Porthos?_" Athos suddenly said, reacting to his voice and trying to raise his arm.

Porthos dropped down quickly and grabbed his hand carefully, laying it back on his hip, covering it with his own large hand to save him the pain of his screaming shoulder muscles, should he try to move his arm again.

"I'm 'ere, Athos," he replied tenderly, leaning over him. "We all are."

Athos was almost beyond reply, though he said one word;

"_Silas."_

Porthos exchanged a look with Aramis, who shrugged and shook his head, before turning back to Athos.

"What hurts, my friend?" Aramis asked, urgently.

"Everything," Athos gasped, before slipping away once more.

oOo

After d'Artagnan had laid out the cloaks for Aramis, who was now attempting to treat Athos as best he could, he began his own survey of the inside of the barn in an attempt to find anything that may help them see what had happened here. There had not been a soul in sight when they arrived, and it had remained eerily quiet ever since.

Seeing d'Artagnan crouch down on the far side of the barn, Porthos watched him for a few moments before he called across to him.

"Find somethin'?"

d'Artagnan dropped his fingers into the earth and looked up.

"Blood," he said. "A trail of blood. In a straight line," he finished, scanning the line of blood that stretched away from him.

"A straight line?" Porthos called, puzzled by the discovery.

"Yes," d'Artagnan called back, thoughtfully, before standing and walking over to the animal stalls at the end of the barn.

Opening the creaking gate of the nearest stall, he went inside and disappeared from view as he crouched down once more. A few moments later his disembodied voice called out from behind the wooden wall of the stall.

"Athos's empty scabbard," he called out.

Standing, he lifted up Athos's plain belt with the empty scabbard to show Porthos, who was now on his feet and walking toward him. Taking the belt, Porthos leant over to look over the pen to the rough earth.

"No weapon belt?" he grunted.

"No, just this," d'Artagnan replied. "There's no sign of his uniform."

"Could be with his horse," Aramis said then, from his place at Athos's side. "He's wearing his plain travelling clothing."

There had been no sign of Athos's horse, either in the deserted village or outside the barn.

"Could be," Porthos hummed, as he began searching the other stalls.

d'Artagnan and Aramis both looked toward him as they heard him suddenly utter an angry curse.

"What is it?" Aramis called, not wanting to stop helping Athos, but needing to know what Porthos had found.

Porthos rose to his feet and looked over at them.

"Athos's pauldron," he said, tersely. "Looks like they used this stall as a latrine. They knew he was a Musketeer, an' they weren't too happy about it."

He scraped some sorry-looking piles of straw together and dropped it over the urine-soaked pauldron, before gingerly picking it up.

"I'll get this knocked back into shape when we get back," he said, more to himself that the others.

Coming out of the stall, he scuffed his foot on the ground.

"More blood," he said. "He fought them," he added quietly.

"Well, it looks like he lost," Aramis said tightly, his hand gently resting on Athos's shoulder.

oOo

The decision had been made to spend the night and, as Aramis continued to work, Porthos and d'Artagan set up their camp beside him. No fire would be needed, as the night was warm, but with little straw, and their cloaks in use, there would be little comfort. However, none of them would get much sleep. There was also the added problem of how to transport Athos back to Paris. They were one horse down and it would not be possible for one of them to double up.

d'Artagnan brought in the rest of their supplies and their water skins and went looking around the barn once more to see what else he could find that may help. Some luck was with him when he found two rusted lamps. Shaking them, he grinned when he discovered they were both half full of oil. Carrying them over, he sat with his back to one of the stalls as he pulled the wicks up and withdrew the flints from his belt before beginning his attempt to strike a light and get the lamps lit.

It was no easy task, but eventually, he got one of them lit. The flame flared and then settled.

"Save the other one for later," Aramis said, "No point burning them both down at once."

Taking his knife, Aramis slit the material over Athos's damaged leg from ankle to hip, and Porthos bent to pull off his boot and hose, carefully placing them next to d'Artagnan, who was now apportioning some dried rations to see them through the night.

Aramis poured some of their water over Athos's leg to clean the skin, before rummaging in his kit for a small bottle of spirit. Dabbing it carefully on the worst of the cuts, he was dismayed that it did not rouse Athos.

Night fell fully, and it seemed they were in a small oasis of light within the vast black interior.

The sudden sound of horses made them look up.

"If they are ours," Aramis growled, dropping his gaze back to his task, "Send them back to the Garrison with word for Treville."

"And if they're the assailants?" d'Artagnan asked, kneeling up, hand gripping his sword hilt.

Aramis looked up, a feral look crossing his face that sent a shiver down d'Artagnan's spine.

"Send them to Hell," he said, his voice deadly.

"With pleasure," d'Artagnan replied.

Aramis pulled the lamp closer as Porthos rose to join d'Artagnan and greet their guests.

oOo

As it turned out, it was one of their own patrols. The Musketeers had no news, but they _were_ heading back to the Garrison. After speaking to them, Porthos returned with a spare blanket, a coil of rope, a few extra rations and another water skin.

"Told them we'd be settin' off at first light," he said, as he walked past Aramis toward the back of the barn. Something in the shadows had caught his eye earlier but he had assumed it was old machinery and had been too busy since then to give it consideration.

"How are we going to do that?" d'Artagnan asked.

In response, Porthos held up his hand as he approached the covered hulk. He pulled an old oiled sheet partially from his discovery and grunted in satisfaction.

It was a cart. Not a heavy one but one more suited for transporting people. Probably field workers, or even the owner's family. The paint had long since peeled but the wood, though bleached, looked sound. He crouched beside it and examined the hubs. They had been greased at some point and he was reassured they may turn. They weren't that far from Paris, and this would ensure Athos had an easier ride. He threw the length of the rope he had taken from the patrol into the bed of the cart and walked around to the back. Putting his shoulder to the backboard, he shoved. At first, nothing happened, but then the second shove sent a creak and a shudder through the undercarriage and the four wooden wheels began to move.

Seeing what he was doing, d'Artagnan ran across and leant his shoulder and the cart moved forward much more easily, until it stood in the middle of the barn.

"Not bad," Porthos said, looking over it with some satisfaction.

d'Artagnan clapped him on the shoulder.

"Not bad at all," he agreed, and they both smiled for the first time that night.

Turning their grin on Aramis, he sat back on his haunches and returned their enthusiasm with a brief salute.

"God works in mysterious ways," he said.

"Maybe 'e can help us get it ship-shape then," Porthos grunted, taking the cart in. Battered, but serviceable, he silently thought.

d'Artagnan climbed up onto the bed of the cart and rummaged around. There were empty sacks and old straw but nothing else, save for the old oiled sheet that Porthos had pulled aside. He took hold of it and pulled it further aside, ready to clear the boards for their journey back to Paris. Something fell by his feet as it did so, he reached down and picked up a leather-bound folder.

"What is it?"Porthos said, as d'Artagnan passed it down to him.

Flicking it open he turned to Aramis.

"Athos's despatches case," he called out, holding it up.

Aramis paused and looked up.

"He must have got it hidden before he was captured," he called back; his admiration evident in his voice.

Porthos opened the wallet carefully and pulled the parchment out. Seeing the Baron's signature, he grinned.

"So he completed his mission," d'Artagnan said.

"'Course he did," Porthos said, quietly, tucking the folder into the inside of his jacket and making his way back to Aramis and their injured brother.

**To be continued ...**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Aramis had, for now, done all he could.

All that was left was to wash Athos's face, which was streaked with dried blood and dirt and was badly bruised.

Pouring water onto a clean cloth, he squeezed it out and then began to carefully wipe; studiously avoiding his swollen eye. As he scrubbed carefully at the side of his face, he moved his hair away, and suddenly froze. The lower part of Athos's ear was crusted in dried blood and as Aramis carefully bathed it, it became apparent by the straight cut beneath that it had been sliced.

He leapt to his feet, surprising Porthos and d'Artagnan, who looked up at him, now pacing angrily in front of them.

"What is it?" Porthos asked, standing and going over to Aramis.

"What's wrong?" he asked, dreading some terrible injury that Aramis had just uncovered.

"They cut his ear, Porthos!" Aramis cried, shaking himself free from Porthos's hand on his arm.

"Say what?" Porthos asked, frowning.

"They sliced his ear," Aramis repeated, softly, turning back.

Porthos almost laughed, but this was serious. Aramis had been working solidly on dealing with the many cruel injuries Athos had suffered, yet he was almost undone by the sight of a sliced earlobe.

Then, Porthos understood. It was the last straw. Aramis had kept his composure as he had uncovered the bruises; Athos's severely chafed wrists had made him as angry as the cracked ribs, but he had quietly carried on. Finally finished, he had discovered an injury that must have hurt, but worse than that, so close to his face, he wondered how it had happened. How it was done. What Athos had endured before it happened.

Aramis took a few deep breaths as Porthos squeezed his shoulder. Then he returned to Athos's side to reach for his needles. His hand shook as he tried to thread the needle, and d'Artagnan gently took it from him. Aramis hadn't sewn the cuts in his legs, afraid of sewing infection in, but he could do this one small thing, before they turned in for the long night ahead.

d'Artagnan passed him the threaded needle and leant forward, gently putting his fingers behind Athos's ear to give Aramis better access as Aramis finally placed three small stitches into the delicate skin.

"Won't even leave a mark," Porthos said, proudly.

At his words, Aramis suddenly put a hand over his eyes as a sob caught in his throat.

d'Artagnan looked helplessly up at Porthos, who pressed his lips together and gently nodded reassurance to him. d'Artagnan quietly rose to his feet and left the barn to tend to the horses, as Porthos pulled his friend up and into a firm embrace.

"Now then," Porthos said, fondly. "Don't you fall apart on us. Athos needs you."

It was enough.

Aramis sniffed and pulled himself up.

Running both hands through his unruly hair he turned his face away.

"Just tired," he murmured, before turning back and locking eyes with Porthos.

"We all are," the big man nodded.

oOo

The barn was dark now. Standing outside, the open doors to his back, Porthos kept guard. It was unbeknown to them if the Red Guard had apprehended the Vachons but it was their habit to stand watch. Moreso, when one of them was injured.

Bright stars studded a black sky. A large, full moon hung low in the sky, casting an eery white light and dappling the dark trees with streaks of moonlight, softening the otherwise black shadows. The only sounds were the occasional call of an owl high up in the trees ahead or the sudden ruckus as a wood pigeon took flight.

Porthos looked back over his shoulder, through the open barn door. He could see Aramis, illuminated against the black background in a pool of light from one of the oil lamps that d'Artagnan had found and managed to get working. Aramis was kneeling over Athos, working on his leg once more and was oblivious of being watched. d'Artagnan was sitting on the ground with his back against a stall, eyes closed but not asleep, his lips moving as he talked softly with Aramis.

The night passed slowly.

Porthos made his third circuit of the barn, his ears alert to any noise that did not belong, his eyes darting over the trees and shrubs that surrounded them. Taking his place once more in front of the barn doors, he lifted a water skin and took a long drink.

oOo

Once Aramis was satisfied that he had done all he could, he stood and worked the cramp from his back muscles before walking over to Porthos, just outside the barn doors.

Standing quietly beside the large man, Aramis looked up at the stars.

"A beautiful night," he said softly.

Porthos hummed in agreement, before turning to look at Aramis.

"You alright?"

Aramis looked surprised to be asked.

"Me?" he said. "Yes," he added. "I'm better now we have him settled."

His eyes drifted down to something Porthos was holding.

"What's that you've got there?" he said.

Porthos lifted it up; a jumble of leather straps and buckles.

"Harness and tack. It was hanging from the post inside the door there. It's old and the leather's dry, but I think we can use it," he said, jingling the harness and winking at Aramis. "Looks like no-one has used that cart for a long time."

"Maybe they didn't have the heart to let it go," Aramis replied.

"Maybe," Porthos grunted, before looking Aramis in the eye.

"How is he?"

Aramis ran a hand over his forehead, kneading fiercely;

"I'm worried about his head; he has not maintained consciousness since we found him. He has a couple of cracked ribs, I'm sure, looking at the concentration of bruises. And, you've seen his leg. Also, I fear for his shoulder muscles. Not to mention his wrists, his knee and his eye."

"Not too bad then," Porthos said, gently nudging his friend's shoulder.

Aramis did not respond. His eyes dropped to the ground and he kicked half-heartedly at the dirt, before he reached up and tugged at his hair.

"We've got 'im back," Porthos said at his side.

A long moment stretched between them before Aramis straightened and looked at him.

"We have," he smiled.

"And tomorrow," Porthos added, firmly, "We take 'im home."

"In the cart," Aramis smiled.

"In the cart," Porthos chuckled, knowing that Aramis was thinking about Athos's reaction if he knew the manner of his transportation.

oOo

The morning dawned bright and sunny once more and the three friends picked up the corners of the cloaks that Athos had spent the night on and bore him as best they could over and up onto the cart.

Aramis wrapped the edges of the cloaks around Athos to keep his upper arms tight at his side, his forearms and hands resting on his chest. One of their horse blankets was folded and placed under his head and another under his knee. The last cloak was retrieved from the stall and draped over him. Despite the heat of the day, his skin was cool.

With that, Aramis climbed onto the bed of the cart and sat at Athos's side to watch over him.

d'Artagnan tied Aramis's horse to the back of the cart while Porthos managed to fix a combination of harness, reins and rope between his horse and the cart. Porthos's horse was strong, by necessity, and placid. He accepted the task with a stamp of his hoof, as if eager to be off. d'Artagnan would ride ahead while Porthos drove the cart.

"Don't even know the name of this place," Porthos grunted as he took his seat.

"It doesn't matter," d'Artagnan replied, tersely, as he climbed into his saddle and took up his reins.

"I doubt we will come back," Aramis agreed, from the back of the cart; his hand resting gently on Athos's head.

When they were all ready, Porthos shucked the reins. His horse, used to his command, stepped forward, as d'Artagnan led them out of the barn at walking pace into bright sunshine and onto the track back to the main route back to Paris. In the back, Aramis positioned himself so that his body shielded Athos from the heat of the sun.

They could not make speed in the old cart and it took over two hours to cover the distance but at the sight of Paris over the horizon they all breathed a sigh of relief. They had stopped twice for water and to check Athos, who was still cool to the touch, but looked as comfortable as he could be, under the circumstances.

When they got closer to the city, d'Artagnan looked back and raised an eyebrow. Aramis gave him a wave and d'Artagnan took off, riding hard to the Garrison to warn Treville of their arrival.

Porthos watched him as he disappeared over the pasture land before turning and looking down at Aramis.

"It's nearly over," he said softly.

Resting a hand on Athos's chest, Aramis nodded in relief.

**To be continued ...**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

The Infirmary was ready when the cart rolled into the Garrison yard. The patrol had returned the previous night with news on Athos and the other three Musketeers, and preparations had been made. All the men came out and Treville came down the stairs before the cart had rolled to a stop. Porthos jumped down and gave Jacques the reins. Jacques looked at the web of rope and reins that attached the horse to the careworn wagon and looked a little perplexed.

Porthos clamped a hand on his shoulder;

"We'll decide what to do with it later," he said, at Jacques confused look.

Jacques nodded and held the horse firmly, keeping the cart still.

Porthos turned and went to the back of the cart, as Aramis jumped down. d'Artagnan joined them and together they pulled the cloaks toward them and manhandled Athos down from the cart, before manoeuvring away and off toward the Infirmary.

"Back to work!" Treville shouted at those men standing around impotently. "I know you want news, and I will give it as soon as I know."

As Musketeers began to disperse, Treville followed his newly-arrived Musketeers into the Infirmary building.

"He's 'eavier than he looks," Porthos grunted, as they moved down the corridor and into the main room.

They continued down to the end of the room to the physician's room, where Aramis sighed in relief at the sight of Dr Lemay, setting the contents of his bag on the table in the corner.

"On the table, please," he said, unnecessarily, but the men obeyed, gently laying Athos down, before turning him in order to retrieve their cloaks and clear the way for the doctor.

d'Artagnan reached into his jacket and retrieved Athos's document wallet, which he handed to Treville, who was hovering in the doorway.

"Mission complete," he said quietly, as Treville nodded.

"Gentlemen," Treville then said, addressing Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan, "Let the doctor do his job. Go and clean up and we can await his report."

"With respect," Aramis replied, without taking his eyes from Athos, "I'm staying."

"_Aramis,_" Treville sighed, his hands tightening on the wallet in his hands.

"We're officially off duty, right?" Porthos spoke up, and Treville knew he had lost his argument.

"Very well," he replied, "If that is alright with Doctor Lemay."

Lemay looked from the men in front of him to their Captain. He was not a stranger to this and he knew they would keep out of his way. Aramis could be of help to him and so he gave an affirmative tilt of his head.

"I will be glad of the assistance, Captain," he responded.

"I'll be in my office," Treville replied, wearily.

With that, his gaze fell on Athos once more, and he turned to leave.

"Thank you, Captain," he heard Aramis say as he left.

oOo

As Lemay began his inspection, the three friends fell into a practised routine.

Despite the warm day, d'Artagnan lit a fire in the grate and then went to fill a pan with water to boil on the kindling. Porthos left to prepare a bed in the far room, which, from experience, he knew Athos preferred. Aramis rolled up his sleeves and opened the cupboards, pulling out bowls and bottles and rolls of bandages.

Lemay gave him an approving look. He was well versed with the care the Musketeer regiment gave to their men. He had been impressed when he had first seen the Infirmary, and had helped advise on what stocks and stores were needed. When he met Aramis, who was keen to improve his skills earned on the battlefields of Northern France, he had not hesitated in sharing his knowledge.

Lemay could see that Athos had been cleaned up as best as he friends could accomplish. He listened to Aramis's account of how they had found him and how they had spent the night as he began to divest Athos of his clothes. Aramis continued his account as he took over, allowing Lemay to gather his instruments and lay them out on the cupboard behind them.

By that time, the water was boiled and d'Artagnan filled a bowl for Lemay to drop his instruments into, as he liked to do. Next, he filled another bowl for the doctor and Aramis to wash their hands; another practise that Lemay encouraged.

d'Artagnan then tucked his hands under his arms and stood back, awaiting instructions, as Porthos entered with a nod and came to stand next to him.

"Let's see what we have here," Lemay announced, before moving to stand behind Athos and putting gentle fingers into his hair. Feeling his scalp, he hummed when he came to the back of his head and felt a hard knot.

"That's a significant lump," he murmured, looking up at Aramis, who had explained the injury in his account.

"He hasn't really been conscious since we found him," Aramis hesitated, resting his hand on Athos's arm.

Lemay did not speak. Aramis wondered if he had heard him, but experience had shown him that when involved with a patient, the good doctor became very absorbed and forgot about his surroundings. In this case, Aramis thought, that was a good thing, and his eyes darted to Porthos and d'Artagnan at the foot of the table, who both nodded reassuringly at him.

"I would be more concerned if there was no lump," Lemay offered, though he did not explain further.

He then ran his hands over Athos's bruised ribcage.

"Nothing broken, but probably a couple of cracked ribs."

Aramis looked up when Porthos growled. Porthos shook his head and pressed his lips together, without further comment, and Aramis turned his attention back to what the doctor was doing.

Lemay next began to run his hand over Athos's shoulders, his eyes darting to his abraded wrists.

"You have no idea how long he was tied like that?" he asked.

"S'how we found 'im," Porthos said, drawing Lemay's attention. "But at some point, he was sat on the floor, judging by the tracks 'e left in the dirt."

"Tracks?" Lemay asked, looking puzzled.

Porthos leant forward and put both hands on the desk, palms facing each other.

"Width of 'is body," he said. "And, in the middle of that, scuff marks made by his boot heels, from lockin' his legs in place, once he was strung up."

d'Artagnan raised his eyebrows at Aramis. Porthos had mentioned Athos "digging in," but not that he had been in a sitting position."

Porthos shrugged his shoulders and turned his gaze back to Athos.

"Why isn't he wakin' up?" he asked, his eyes flicking to Lemay, who had reached Athos's hands and was in the process of turning one over to look carefully at it.

"Concussion, exhaustion, blood loss and possible internal damage," he said, without taking his eyes off Athos's hand.

He looked up then and saw them all staring at him.

"Most probably," he added, before looking at Aramis.

"Did you know he has a broken finger?"

"What!" Aramis exclaimed, distraught, taking a step forward and leaning over the table to examine the hand Lemay now held in his own.

Lemay turned the hand over, looking at the grazed knuckles.

"We know he fought them," Aramis said, "but I had not realised ..."

"Easily missed," Lemay said, kindly. "I will bind it to the next one and it will heal on its own."

"But his hands are alright?" d'Artagnan asked tentatively, afraid for any damage that may impede his sword skills.

"They seem so, apart from the obvious abrasions," Lemay replied.

Silence fell as Lemay worked quietly on.

"From what I can see," Lemay now addressed Aramis, "You have all done your best for him. Now, to the leg," he added, pulling up a chair and placing it next to the table so that he was eye level with the leg in question, peeling back the bandage that Aramis had wrapped around the poultice he had placed over it the night before.

He sucked in a breath that unnerved them, but was then silent while he peeled the poultice and set it aside.

"You made this?" Lemay asked, addressing Aramis but not looking up.

"I always carry something to make a poultice," Aramis replied, flatly, praying it had done some good at least.

"There is some infection here," Lemay replied, and Aramis's heart sank. "But not as much as I would have expected, from your account of his tribulations."

Porthos grinned at Aramis, who ran a hand over his face in relief. Making a fist, he gently pumped it in triumph in Porthos's direction.

Lemay turned to the cupboard, but d'Artagnan beat him to it, picking up the bowl with his instruments and carrying it carefully to the table.

Lemay nodded his thanks and reached for a needle.

"I'll do that," d'Artagnan said, offering to thread it.

"Thank you," Lemay replied. "Wash your hands first, if you would."

While d'Artagnan was engaged in doing that, Lemay took a cloth and poured a clear liquid and began to clean the many cuts and slices on Athos's swollen leg.

"His knee is badly swollen," he said as he worked, to no-one in particular.

"Standard practise," Porthos grunted.

When Lemay looked up, he explained. "Damagin' a knee. It easily subdues an otherwise awkward captive," he muttered. "An' I reckon, Athos here, would have been very awkward."

"I do hope so," d'Artagnan smiled tightly, as he handed the threaded needle to the doctor,

"This may take a little while," Lemay said. "If you want to come back?"

"We're stayin'" Porthos replied, instantly.

"Yes, of course you are," Lemay smiled shyly at him. "Perhaps you can help me bandage his injuries."

For his part, Porthos was in no mood for smiling, and Lemay ducked his head and continued his work. Later though, after they had finished helping the doctor, Porthos brought him a cup of Treville's best red wine, as an appeasement for his gruff manner.

"Sorry," he said.

"That's quite alright," the doctor replied, accepting the wine and taking an appreciative sip.

As he finished his wine, he gave them instructions.

"He needs fluids. Lightly salted broth for the blood loss and watered ale would be very acceptable. Watch him tonight, I expect him to wake tomorrow, when his body has had rest and fluids. Keep his leg elevated, keep him warm. Watch his ribs, keep him still. Once his body has settled, in a few days, he will benefit from a warmed oil massage on his shoulders. There may or may not be torn muscles, but they are badly strained. And ..."

"And?" Aramis asked, rolling down his sleeves.

"If he does not wake tomorrow, send for me."

In the silence that followed, Porthos took a step toward the doctor.

Lemay looked up uncertainly, as Porthos reached out his hand. Lemay handed him his empty cup. Porthos though, set it down without a word, and held out his hand again, his eyes boring into Lemay. Lemay carefully took it, and experienced his first handshake from the large Musketeer.

Aramis exchanged an amused look with d'Artagnan, before they became serious once more and turned to look at Athos.

Athos's chest, thigh, wrists and fingers were now firmly bandaged.

"He's ready to move now," Lemay added, stepping back from the big man.

**To be continued ...**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Having been appraised, Treville joined them when Doctor Lemay had taken his leave.

"Thank you, Captain, for sending for the doctor. He's a good physician," Aramis said, as they all took their seats in the small room.

Porthos was tucking Athos in, making sure his arms were tight to his sides once more to ensure his shoulders were comfortable, even though he was still unconscious. Meanwhile, d'Artagnan carefully placed a pillow under Athos's knee and ankle.

"Like this?" he asked Aramis, who gave him a warm smile.

"Just like that," Aramis replied, his voice fond.

d'Artagnan smiled and took his place next to Athos. After a while he tentatively reached out and picked up his hand.

"Do you think his finger will heal?" he asked, looking at his other hand.

"We've all 'ad broken fingers, lad," Porthos replied, "It's the least of 'is worries."

"He's strong," Treville said. "He's had worse."

d'Artagnan didn't want to ask what could possibly be worse than this, and so he held his peace.

When Serge came in with a flagon of wine a little while later, followed by his lad, bearing food, they were all engaged in telling tales of skirmishes and injuries. Being the oldest, some of Treville's tales were truly horrifying, but d'Artagnan suspected he was embellishing some of his stories just to turn his stomach, which seemed to be working, until Aramis gently brought them back by standing and leaning over Athos, talking quietly to him and pushing his hair from his forehead.

After that, their vigil became more serious as reality settled and the night drew on.

oOo

Treville quietly left at dawn to take care of duty, leaving two of his men asleep on their chairs, the other determinedly awake, watching over his still-senseless brother.

"How long will you wait, until you call Lemay back?" Treville had said, hand on the door handle.

Aramis scratched his head and sighed.

"I have no idea," he said. "It's not something I want to contemplate."

Treville nodded.

"You'll know," the Captain answered. "And if you don't, I'll tell you."

Aramis nodded, as Treville pulled open the door.

"Make sure you get some rest, Aramis," he said, and then he was gone.

oOo

**Later:**

The table was littered with trays of uneaten food.

It had been a long night.

Athos had developed a fever during the morning, the hair that Aramis pushed back from his forehead becoming more damp by the hour. This though, was something they could deal with. The interminable silence and waiting was what drove them to distraction.

So, when Athos started to thrash, Aramis was ready.

"Hold his arms! Don't let him raise them."

d'Artagnan and Porthos slipped to each side of the bed and did as they were bid. d'Artagnan wrapped his hands around Athos's upper arm, clamping it to his body.

"Get your hands off me, dammit!" Athos yelled, with such force that d'Artagnan lifted his hands up.

"He doesn't mean you," Porthos said from his side of the bed as he tightened his own grip. "Take hold."

d'Artagnan quickly resumed his position, as Athos emitted a low groan.

"Water," he murmured.

d'Artagnan looked up at Porthos and then at the water jug standing on the bedside table, to Porthos's left.

"Again," Aramis said behind them, as he dropped a cloth into a basin of cold water, before wringing it out and crossing toward them, looking d'Artagnan in the eye, "He doesn't mean you."

"But," d'Artagnan argued, "How do you know he's not thirsty?"

Aramis folded the cloth and dropped it on Athos's forehead, holding it firmly in place with one hand. He reached out and peeled one of his friend's eyelids back.

"Because he is not with us," he replied, tersely.

Even in his current state, Athos was strong, fuelled by the heat in his blood and images in his mind.

When the fever finally abated a few hours later, and their friend gradually went lax, they all had a better insight into what had happened in that barn. Quietly, exhausted and a little lost for words, they changed the bedding and retreated to the table.

They were beginning to wonder aloud when they should call Lemay back. Athos had not woken but he seemed to have settled and exhaustion crept slowly over them.

At some point before noon, d'Artagnan and Porthos had slept a little, waking to insist that Aramis take to a spare bed in the other room. They had been politely refused. As usual, Aramis would work himself to the point of collapse before he finally took their insistence, under threat of force, seriously and slept.

Once he laid his head down, with Porthos standing over him, he did fall asleep almost instantly. d'Artagnan took the opportunity to slip out and see to their horses and fetch ale. They would eat the food when their appetite returned.

oOo

Aramis woke with a jolt some time later and, disorientated, looked around.

Remembering where he was, he stretched and threw his legs over the side of the bed. Porthos had left the door ajar, and he could see Athos, still lying motionless in his bed. Porthos had left him a bowl of water, piece of soap and a towel, and Aramis smiled as he saw the items. Standing, he pulled his shirt free and lifted it over his shoulders, throwing it behind him onto the bed. Dipping his hands into the water, he splashed his face and then soaped his hands, before scrubbing at his face.

As he towelled his face, he heard movement and looked up. Porthos was in the doorway.

"Thought I 'eard you. Sleep alright?"

Aramis tossed the towel aside and reached for his shirt.

"Remarkably, yes," he said. "Thank you. I sometimes don't realise how tired I am."

"Exhausted, more like," Porthos replied, giving him a look that brooked no argument.

"Exhausted," Aramis agreed, looking past him toward the smaller room.

"Still out," he said.

"Yeah. Hasn't moved," Porthos replied. "Now you're up, I'm goin' for fresh sheets."

"Good idea," Aramis murmured, not taking his eyes from Athos.

"He won't wake just because you're starin' at 'im," Porthos said. "You know what a stubborn bugger he is."

"He_ is_ a challenge," Aramis agreed, looking down at the shirt he was holding in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time and shucking it back on. Smoothing it down, he wrinkled his nose.

Porthos laughed, softly.

"I'll see if I can find you a clean one," he chuckled.

"That will require negotiation with the Laundresses," Aramis offered, looking doubtfully at his friend. The women were a formidable team.

"I'll just tell them it's for 'im," Porthos joked.

"That would work. But he does need a shirt," Aramis replied. "For when he wakes."

He suddenly looked a little bereft, and Porthos put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You go and sit with 'im," he instructed. "I won't be long."

Aramis turned and picked up a basket filled with strips of bandages Lemay had left and walked into the room, taking his place on the chair once more. Watching Athos breathing while he continued to quietly wind the strips into rolls was oddly soothing and for a precious few moments, he forgot his surroundings, lost in his task.

Outside, the sound of the Garrison in full flow filtered through the window. The clash of steel on steel could soon be heard, together with the unmistakable sound of Treville's voice, barking orders.

Life went on, Aramis thought, even though in this room, it had stopped.

Looking down, he saw that he had completed his task. Three rolls of bandages now lay neatly in the basket, without any conscious effort on his part. Outside, horses were being moved around in the yard, and the rumble of wagon wheels filtered through. Aramis placed the basket on the bedside table and crossed to the window, watching the activity from the silence in the room. He could see d'Artagnan talking to Jacques in the stable doorway and Treville now in close conversation with Serge, the latter nodding as Treville ran his finger down a page in the old man's supply book.

Little by little, he realised the atmosphere in the room had shifted.

He felt himself being watched.

Allowing himself a soft smile, he slowly turned around and saw Athos was looking at him; his forehead crinkled in confusion.

"Well, you took your time," Aramis said softly, leaning back on the window sill. Taking a deep breath, he crossed his arms, the chill around his heart easing at last.

Athos remained silent for a long moment, before his forehead eased and he took an unsteady breath.

"So did you."

Aramis's head jerked up, but the expression on Athos's face belied the bluntness of his words, and stole the sharp response from Aramis's lips.

For Athos never took them for granted. He never quite expected to be saved. Even when they had saved him from execution, his response had been a mere quip. Though his eyes always said more.

As they did now.

They had all learned to read him. If he was ill, or hurt, it was best to catch him in the early part of it, as he was not patient with himself. Infinitely patient with others, he fell short by his own standards with regard to himself, they knew now.

He did not suffer fools gladly, and they _did_ like to play the fool.

He would allow himself to be wound-up for so long, but would put a stop to it in no uncertain terms when he had had enough, and usually, if they knew what was good for them, they complied.

However, Athos's guard usually came down once he realised he was in the care of his brothers. After an initial trade-off at least.

So now, they had him for a short while. They could tease and cajole, care for him and love him, be grateful for his return to them and gently bring him back. Then, when the time was right, the signal given, they would retreat, and let him be.

Aramis walked quickly to the bed and reached out, taking Athos's hand, which was given freely.

This was his favourite time with Athos.

The worry of the last few days melted away, as he very carefully brought his hand up and placed a kiss on his abraded knuckles.

Athos tightened his fingers into a gentle squeeze and they let the silence fall around them.

Finally, Aramis straightened and gently lowered his hand.

"You look terrible," he said, softly.

His bruised eye had remained partially closed, the lid swollen.

Athos gave him a semblance of a smile, given his various swellings and bruises.

"I imagine I do," he replied, quietly, still watching.

"Can I get you anything?" Aramis brightened, the atmosphere a little heavy for him.

"I have it all," Athos replied, a smile in his eyes.

Aramis reached out and smoothed the sheet.

"The others will be here soon."

"I know," Athos murmured. They would not be far away. They never were.

"_Athos ..."_

"Rest easy, Aramis," Athos interrupted, firmly. "All is as it should be."

Athos did not allow soul searching. He knew how destructive that was, and would seek to save his friends from it, even it he could not save himself.

Aramis searched his face but found nothing that contradicted his assertion.

It would be time to eat soon. They would help him; the abused muscles of his shoulders would scream in protest. And then they would settle him for the day.

The window of opportunity was closing now. Soon, their help would be politely refused, the boundaries remarked.

They had tonight though, safe in their brotherhood. Tonight they would eat and drink and tell stories. They may, if lucky, make their dear friend laugh. A rare treat.

As Aramis tucked the blanket a little closer around him, Athos shivered.

"Cold?"

"Someone just walked over my grave," Athos murmured.

"It wasn't me," Aramis smiled. "I wouldn't dare."

**To be continued ...**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

Later, when they had reported the good news of Athos's return to Treville and had eaten all the food that was on the table, they all settled together once more and talk inevitably turned to their friend's captivity.

"That was quite a detour you took," Porthos said, as he piled empty plates and cups onto the trays.

"My horse threw a shoe," Athos murmured, wearily. "I had hoped to find a blacksmith."

"What you found," Porthos replied. "Was the Vachon brothers. Scourge of the neighbourhood apparently. The Red Guard had patrols out."

"That explains why they were still at liberty," Athos said, gritting his teeth as Aramis moved his arm in order to re-bandage his wrists. "Were they known to us?" he added.

"No," Aramis replied. "We only found out when aggrieved landowners petitioned the King."

"An' then, he took his time respondin'" Porthos finished. "I think Richelieu 'oped his Guard would mop them up before Treville found out."

Athos huffed derisively at that.

"Treville received a directive while we were away on our individual missions," Aramis concluded. "By that time, your absence was concerning us."

"What did they want from you?" d'Artagnan ventured.

Aramis continued to re-wrap Athos's wrists as the question was asked, not looking up. Tying a knot, he pushed himself to his feet and moved to the table, where he ladled some broth into a bowl, before bringing it back and sitting with in his hands.

Athos was exhausted; his thoughts muddled. Any movement of his arms caused excruciating pain and his breathing, by necessity, was shallow. He looked contented though, and so they were enjoying their time with him.

"Nothing," he replied, thoughtfully. "Just a little sport."

Athos did have information. A Musketeer on his own was either going on a mission, or returning from one. Either way, there was information to be had. But it was, as he said, that these men wanted nothing but entertainment. They wanted an avenue for their drunkenness. Ultimately, they wanted to hurt someone. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Aramis stirred the broth before offering the spoon up to Athos. Athos looked from the spoon to Aramis and sighed, before opening his mouth. This was the second bowl that Aramis was foisting on him, the first one being not long after he had woken and was still compliant. He soon realised however, that he would be dependant upon his friends for some days, his most comfortable position being to remain completely still.

"Did they give you water?" d'Artagnan continued.

"Not to drink, no," Athos replied, flatly.

He had memories of being doused, when he was punched or when he fell, exhausted. When the sword bit into his leg a little too deeply.

His fingers reached carefully down to rest gently on his bandaged thigh at the memory.

"And, when did the beatin' start?" Porthos asked him, standing by the window with his arms folded, and a glower on his face.

Athos dutifully swallowed another spoonful of broth.

"When I stopped walking," he replied.

"Walking?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Around the barn."

"So …?" Aramis encouraged, the spoon returned to the bowl.

"When I stopped walking," Athos explained. "They endeavoured to encourage me."

"Not like you to be encouraged," Porthos grunted.

Athos's testimony explained the trail of blood d'Artagnan had found around the edge of the interior of the barn.

Athos raised his eyes to look at Porthos, one so badly swollen it was still almost shut.

"They would have killed the old man," Athos replied, frowning.

"Old man?" Aramis asked, gently.

"Silas," Athos replied, suddenly more alert. "He owned the barn. He helped me. Then, when we thought all was lost, he left to walk to the next village to raise the alarm."

Aramis looked across at Porthos. _Silas_. It was the name Athos had used in the barn. At the time, they didn't understand, and Athos was in no condition to enlighten them.

"We saw an old man," Aramis said, cautiously. "Talking to the Red Guard patrol. One arm, red hat?"

"Yes. Silas," Athos repeated.

"Was he in on it?" Porthos asked from his place by the window.

"No!" Athos exclaimed, waving away Aramis's attempt at another spoonful of broth. "He had no choice. But he knows them. Give him protection and I am sure he will give you names."

"We believe your assailants _were_ the Vachon brothers, Athos," Aramis replied.

He explained then the circumstances of how he, Porthos and d'Artagnan had joined the patrols seeking the outlaws and that it was only when they came across a contingent of Red Guard that they discovered where he was being held.

"Are they in custody?" Athos asked, looking sharply from Aramis to Porthos.

"We don't know." Aramis admitted. "The Captain is due to meet with Richelieu later. He will have news on his return, no doubt.

"And Silas?" Athos asked, frowning.

The three looked at each other.

"There is something you are not telling me," Athos said. "What is it?"

"I believe the Red Guard intended to take the old man to The Chatelet," Aramis replied, raising the spoon once more. "As a witness. That's all we heard."

"You did not intervene?" Athos said. Staring at each of them in return.

"Had no reason to," Porthos replied. "He wasn't under arrest. They just told him to wait for their return."

"And we had other things on our minds," Aramis added, pointedly.

"He is innocent," Athos continued. "They will burn his barn to the ground if they think he has talked. Do not let that happen. The barn is a great asset to the community."

"Hopefully, they will be in custody by now. And there_ is_ no community, Athos." Aramis said, gently. "From what we saw, they have all gone."

"You must speak up for the old man, Aramis," Athos urged. "He played no part in this."

"As you wish, my friend,"Aramis calmed him. "I will speak to Treville. As I say, he has an audience with Richelieu. I am sure he can petition the King on your behalf. Wherever Silas is, we will find him."

"I need to speak to Treville," Athos insisted, becoming agitated. "I need to tell him what happened. I need to _know_ what has happened!"

"Peace, Athos. Rest now," Aramis urged. "I will go and ask him to come and see you."

"_Now_, Aramis," Athos all but demanded.

Aramis smiled.

"I'm on my way. Rest, Athos," Aramis insisted, as he pulled the sheet up over his shoulder, and plumped his pillows.

Looking behind him at d'Artagnan and Porthos, he signalled that they should all leave Athos now. He wasn't sure how much was confusion or actual fact on Athos's part, but they weren't helping matters. Putting the bowl of broth down, he waited while they took their leave of Athos, and then he fell in behind them, giving Athos a final reassuring nod, before leaving him.

"Maybe we should have ..." d'Artagnan said, turning around when they were outside. It was he who had taken off at the first mention of Athos's name.

"We weren't to know," Aramis interrupted, although he had been having similar uneasy thoughts. "The Captain will find out the truth of it."

In the infirmary, Athos closed his eyes and tried to make sense of the last few days.

oOo

True to his word, Aramis sought out Treville.

"Athos has spoken of an old man, Silas Marchant, Captain. Apparently he helped him. Considerably."

Treville was preparing to go to the Louvre to deliver Baron de'Bouvier's contract to the Cardinal.

"Who is this man?" Treville asked, shuffling through other papers he would be taking with him.

"According to Athos, he owned the barn. We did see him briefly when we came upon the Red Guard talking to the tavern patron. That man rode off with the Red Guard but the old man was ordered to remain behind, in order to identify the Vachon brothers when the arresting party returned. Presuming the Vachons _were_ arrested, it's possible that they took the old man to the Chatelet. Athos is concerned that an innocent man may be caught up in this. The Chatelet is no place for an old man, Captain."

Treville listened intently, his fingers drumming on his desk.

"The Cardinal will no doubt know whether his Guard were successful. He would expect no less," he said. "I will make enquiries about the old man. If he helped Athos, I can see why he is concerned."

"Well, you know Athos," Aramis sighed. "If _we_ cannot find out, he will attempt to do so himself."

Treville sighed.

"According to Dr Lemay, he is in no fit state to leave his bed."

"You and I both know that, Captain," Aramis agreed. "But Athos will need to be reminded of the fact as often as possible, unless we can reassure him."

"Then perhaps," Treville replied, "He should be reminded, in no uncertain times, that he is not the only one who can prize information from His Eminence and his Red Guard, and equally, that a direct order from his Commanding Officer is not to be ignored."

Aramis looked relieved as he stepped back, allowing Treville to stride past him, on his way to see his Lieutenant.

oOo

Athos must have fallen asleep, for, when he opened his eyes again, d'Artagnan was sitting at the table and Treville was sitting at his bedside.

"Athos, I am glad to see you," his Captain said, his steel-blue gaze intently taking in his soldier's bruised face and bandaged chest. "You had us worried. If the worst had happened, you would have been sorely missed."

"I need to find out about Silas," Athos replied, getting straight to the point of what was irking him.

"So I understand," Treville said. "I have an audience with the Cardinal later to deliver the Baron's contract. You did an excellent job there, Athos. I am sure he will appreciate it. I'll look into what has become of your assailants. Put this business from your mind now."

"And Silas," Athos urged.

"Agreed," Treville said, before leaning forward. "Take your recovery seriously. Heed Aramis, in whatever he asks of you. He has my full backing. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Captain."

"It will be a grave error on your part if you fall back on our agreement."

Treville left, satisfied he had made his point.

Athos irritably pulled at the sheet with his good hand. d'Artagnan watched for a while, before finally, Athos looked up and pinned him with a withering glare.

"You have something on your mind, d'Artagnan," he said. "What is it?"

d'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably under his mentor's unwavering gaze.

"I don't understand," he said, eventually.

"What is it you do not understand?" Athos fired back, maintaining his fixed stare.

"There were only three of them," d'Artagnan finally replied, looking down.

"That is true," Athos replied, flatly.

"I have seen you best twice as many men," d'Artagnan said, looking up. "And triumph."

Athos sighed and looked away. He had wondered it himself many times, while tied to the post. He had railed against it and had roared his fury into the dark shadows of that barn. Ultimately, it came down to one thing.

"They would have killed him, d'Artagnan," he finally replied. "An old one-armed man. A war veteran. And they would have made me watch. I could not have that on my conscience."

An uneasy silence fell over them, before d'Artagnan raised his head and spoke;

"So you let them hurt you."

Athos's eyes flicked back to d'Artagnan, at that statement. A range of emotions played across the young man's face.

Athos had forgiven d'Artagnan his youth many times. Here was another example, laid bare.

"Well," Athos huffed, now looking mildly amused, "I _hope_ I put up a fight," he said, almost to himself. "Half these injuries were almost self inflicted."

d'Artagnan thought it over for a few moments, and then a slow smile of understanding spread across his face. Point taken.

"Besides," Athos continued, "They were drunk a lot of the time. Their blows were not as accurate as they could have been."

It was d'Artagnan's turn to huff; the blows looked pretty accurate to him. He sobered then, one final thought on his lips.

"We could have missed you," he said, his eyes shining. "We were so close to riding past."

"I am grateful that you did not," Athos replied, shifting his leg and grimacing. "Let us talk of it no more."

The conversation at an end, d'Artagnan rose and filled a cup with watered ale. Walking over, he helped Athos to take a few sips.

Placing the cup on the table next to the bed, d'Artagnan turned.

"So," he said, a smile spreading across his face as he dropped into the chair that Treville had vacated. "Tell me about Silas."

**To be continued ...**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

Later, Treville saddled up and rode out of the Garrison for his meeting with His Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu.

The Musketeer patrol that had called at the barn had arrived before the three men who were causing the disturbance in the tavern had been apprehended and the only way Treville would find out whether the Vachons had been apprehended was to speak directly to The Cardinal and, possibly, the Red Guard contingent who had gone to investigate; a task he did not relish. He had assured Athos he would find out what had happened to the old man who had helped him and, had apparently gone for help.

Treville had given Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan three days leave to care for Athos. Knowing his Lieutenant, he would want to be up and about at the first opportunity, but at the moment, he was bedridden and those three were the best people to keep him there.

As Treville rode out, Aramis walked into the infirmary with a bowl in his hands and a towel over his shoulder.

"Doctor's orders," he said, as Athos watched him move across the room. Aramis turned and met his scowl. He really did look awful.

Aramis set the bowl over the pan of water he had placed on the embers of the night's fire, before pulling up a chair. He took hold of Athos's good hand and began to lift it. Athos flinched and made to pull away, but a bolt of pain shot through his shoulder joint and he stifled an angry groan.

"How far can you lift it?" Aramis asked.

"I believe I just demonstrated my full range," Athos gasped.

"As I thought," Aramis hummed. "I am sorry for what I am about to do, but I report to Dr Lemay and he was insistent on our doing this."

"On "our" doing what?" Athos asked suspiciously, rolling his head on the pillow as he tracked Aramis on his way back to the fire.

Aramis brought the pan over and set it down on the floor. Then he took the towel from his shoulder and placed it carefully behind Athos's shoulder, to protect the sheet. The bandage wrapped tightly around his chest was the only item he wore above his waist, and Aramis dipped his hands in the bowl and rubbed them together.

"Warmed oil," he said, by way of explanation to an unasked question, as he placed his hands on Athos's shoulder and began to slowly circle the contours of the muscles in his upper arm.

"We don't have to do both shoulders now," Aramis said. "I can come back later."

Athos bore it well, the combination of sickening pain and warm massage concentrated his mind and the two men fell into a companionable silence.

It was inevitable that the subject of Athos's confinement would come up, and Aramis systematically went through his injuries, telling him what Lemay had said and how he had initially treated those injuries.

"He was confident you would heal," he said, "but he did insist upon this," he added, as his strokes grew firmer, and the muscles complained.

Athos grunted, but did not reply. His jaw worked as he gritted his teeth. He could barely bear to have his arm lifted a few inches from the mattress.

"You need time to heal, Athos. You were deprived of food and water and treated appallingly," Aramis said, carefully.

Athos closed his eyes and looked away. He remembered he had challenged, and then reasoned, before steeling himself for the inevitable as the Vachon's discussed what was in store for him.

His face was running with perspiration now, and Aramis slowed the firm, sweeping motions.

"Enough?" he asked, gently.

"No," Athos said, his face set. "Proceed."

oOo

Treville duly arrived at the Louvre, the signed document from the Baron de'Bouvier now in his saddlebag. He also had questions. Aramis had brought him Athos's entreaty to try and discover what had become of Silas Marchant and, if the worst had happened and the Red Guard had thrown him in the Chatelet with the Vachon brothers, to petition for the King for his release.

His boots echoed along the corridor as he made his way purposefully to the Cardinal's vast room.

The door was opened by a Red Guard on his second knock and the familiar figure of His Eminence, pouring over one of many documents on his desk, came into view.

The Cardinal seemed to relish such administration, unlike he, who found it time-consuming and tiring. Treville was a soldier at heart though and the machinations of the First Minister were no doubt far more interesting to Richelieu than regiment rotas, requests, invoices for stores and the consequences of the many missions that he, himself, had to deal with. In that, he found he envied him a little.

He dropped Athos's leather wallet on Richelieu's ornate desk and took a seat without being asked. It was their usual opening gambit and if it irked Richelieu, he never said and so their dance continued.

After a few moments, Richelieu dropped the document he had been reading and reached for the wallet without looking up. Removing the Baron's contract, the Cardinal smiled, before finally raising his pale eyes.

"Athos has saved you a considerable amount of money," Treville said, tersely, in no mood for combat this morning.

Richelieu looked back at the document.

"So he has," he replied, his tongue licking his lips as he read through it.

After a few moments, Treville impatiently leaned forward.

"I will give him your thanks," he said, when it was clear that Richelieu was not going to speak again. "When he recovers," he added, curtly. "I believe the Vachon brothers were instrumental in almost killing him."

Richelieu looked up, mild annoyance crossing his features.

"The Vachon brothers are in The Chatelet, due to the actions of _my _Guard," he said, matter-of-factly, before dropping his eyes back to the document, which he continued to read.

"In no small part down to the good will of the Tavern landlord and one of his patrons," Treville countered, drawn inevitably into combat in support of his men. "According to _my_ men."

Richelieu lowered the document and sighed.

"It is the duty of all citizens to uphold the law," Richelieu replied, setting aside the Baron's document and slowly raising his pale eyes to fall on Treville.

The Captain of the King's Musketeers was one man he could not intimidate, however.

"And what of the old man, Silas Marchant?" Treville asked, returning the man's cold gaze with one of equal measure.

Richelieu sighed and sat back. Any hope that Treville was finished seeped away.

"_What_ old man?" he replied, tetchily, his fingers beginning to beat out an irritated beat on his desk.

"I understand, according to my Musketeers" Treville replied, "That when the Red Guard spoke to the Tavern patron, there was also an old man there. That man directed them to his barn, where they found Athos. And, the Baron's contract," he added, should Richelieu be in any doubt that the two were connected.

"I have no knowledge of an old man," Richelieu replied, haughtily. "Why should I?"

"Because he was a witness to the Vachon's deeds. He was ordered by your Guard to accompany them to The Chatelet, on apprehension of the Vachons. Apparently, according to my men, he waited with a contingent of Red Guard for the main force to return with their prisoners."

Richelieu rose slowly to his feet and walked to the door, waving the Red Guard aside. Opening it, he turned to Treville.

"Then I suggest you enquire at The Chatelet," he said. "I cannot be held responsible for every man my Guard arrests."

"I trust he was _not_ arrested," Treville countered firmly, his eyes blazing.

Richelieu merely took a step back, whilst holding eye contact, obviously expecting Treville to leave.

When Treville stood his ground, the Cardinal smiled. Such a smile always unsettled Treville.

"Well, as I said," Richelieu replied, "You should make enquiries elsewhere. Good day to you, Captain Treville," he added pointedly, as his gaze drifted out into the corridor.

Treville's hand tightened on the hilt of the sword hanging at his side;

"I trust that the Baron's piece of land will be worth it," he glowered, as he swept past Richelieu.

"Oh, I am sure it will be," Richelieu responded, out of earshot, as he closed the door.

**To be continued ...**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Before heading to The Chatelet, for he owed Athos this further investigation, Treville stopped at the Red Guard's barracks to speak to a sergeant who was sometimes amenable to collaboration. However, the man knew nothing and, after searching his rotas, he reported that the Guards in question on the day were now on a mission in the northern territories and would not return to Paris for several days.

There was some good news, however;

"There is a Musketeer horse in our stables, Captain," the sergeant continued. "It bears your brand. Might be your man's. Raymond Vachon was using him as his own; thereby adding horse theft to his many crimes. Cantankerous beast, he is. The stable hands will be glad to be rid of him," he smiled.

Treville thanked the man and went straight to the stables.

Sure enough, the black devil occupied the end stall and Treville, feeling a sense of relief at the sight of him, approached quietly. Running his hands over the horse's back, he looked around for Athos's saddle and saw it had been set on a low stool in the next stall. A stable boy helped him saddle the horse and fit the tack. There were no saddlebags and, sadly, no sign of Athos's uniform. He had little doubt that it had met an untimely end at the hands of the three assailants who so hated the King's Musketeers.

If the horse recognised Treville, he could not tell, but he allowed him to lead him from the stable and was quiet as Treville mounted his own horse and took up the spare reins. As Treville was about to leave, the sergeant approached him. Held in his hand, was what was obviously a sword, wrapped in a cloth.

"Vachon had this, too," he said, pulling the cloth aside. "Do you recognise it?"

"It belongs to Athos," Treville confirmed, relief evident in his voice.

"Thought so. It didn't suit Raymond Vachon," the sergeant smiled, as he rewrapped the sword and passed it up.

"No sign of the weapon belt?" Treville asked.

At the shake of the sergeant's head, Treville nodded. "It's a consolation to have the sword. I believe it is dear to him. My thanks to you," Treville said, as he took the sword and slotted it into his saddle. Athos would be glad of it, but, so far, he had no other news for him.

Thus, Treville rode to The Chatelet, his expression grim and his heart heavy, with Athos's horse in tow.

oOo

**The Garrison**

It was nearing dusk when the sound of horses alerted them.

Treville came thundering through the archway, scattering any inattentive soul in his wake. In tow a few beats to his left, was a lone horse, easily recognisable to the men now safe at the boundaries of the yard, as Athos's imposing stallion. Some of them began to applaud, pleased to see the horse returned, for although he was only really subdued under Athos's control, he was a horse of the King's Musketeer Regiment - highly trained and prized. It was therefore gratifying to see that he had been returned to his rightful place, where he belonged. The applause died quickly at the sight of their Captain, who dismounted quickly and handed his horse's reins to Jacques, whilst maintaining responsibility for the jittery black stallion.

As the boy led his horse into the stables, Treville cast a look at the scattering of men watching him.

"As you were," he barked, as he led the black stallion into the stables behind Jacques.

The men began to mutter amongst themselves, before dispersing; some to the mess, some to their quarters and those who sought a tavern for a few hours, through the archway.

At the sight of Roger, Aramis smiled in relief as he watched from the infirmary window, before making a decision and heading outside, with a nod to d'Artagnan who was currently on watch. Making his way to the stables, Aramis watched from the doorway as Treville threw a saddle over the side panel of one of the stalls. Both horses were steaming. Treville had ridden hard, it seemed. Catching Jacques's eye, Aramis gave him a quick nod, and the lad slipped away.

"Eager to get home?" Aramis asked cautiously, as he approached softly, not wishing to spook either of the horses, or his Captain.

Treville ran his hand over the saddle, before he turned around.

Whatever he had been doing, Aramis could feel the anger rolling off him.

"You've seen His Eminence," Aramis said quietly, leaning back and folding his arms.

Treville's shoulders dropped and he ran a hand roughly over his eyes and down his face.

"I swear, the man's heart is made of granite," he snapped.

"Well," Aramis smiled, picking up a piece of straw and chewing on it. "We all know that."

He waited, and Treville eventually sighed.

"He is "grateful" for Athos's contribution," he ground out.

"He said that?" Aramis feigned surprise.

Treville huffed a smile.

"He acknowledged Athos had saved him a considerable amount of money."

"Ah," Aramis replied. "There is the Man of God we all admire."

Treville raised his eyes and gave a short laugh. He could always rely on Aramis to lighten the mood.

Treville picked up the wrapped sword from a bale of hay where he had laid it and unwrapped it, tossing the cloth back onto the bale.

Aramis smiled.

"Athos will be glad to have that back," he said. "The horse too," he added, as an afterthought.

"How is he?" Treville enquired.

"Bathed, re-bandaged and safe in his bed. And completely oblivious to it all. In other words, drugged."

"Who's with him?" Treville asked.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis replied, trying to read his Captain's expression. "Porthos is in the mess."

"Get them," Treville said. "Meet me in my office. There is something you should know."

oOo

When they regrouped in Treville's office, he asked them to sit.

Athos's sword now lay on his desk, undamaged, they all noted to themselves, as they waited for their Captain to speak.

"The Vachons are in custody," Treville began, running his fingers over the blade, before picking it up and putting it on his shelf. "They were too drunk to resist," he continued, sitting down wearily in his chair and rubbing a hand over his face. "And, as you all know by now, Athos's horse is back in the stable," he added. "Unsettled, but unharmed.

"The trial is imminent, once the evidence is gathered. I have hopes there will be some who will come forward to testify against them, now they are behind bars."

"Athos will be relieved to hear that," d'Artagnan said.

He allowed his three men to exchange relieved smiles.

The Captain though, remained dour, and the three exchanged uneasy glances. This should be a cause for celebration, despite the Red Guard having the honour of arresting the notorious family.

"What else?" Aramis ventured.

"Silas was not in The Chatelet," Treville replied.

oOo

Aramis was lighting candles when Athos opened his eyes.

He had slept the day away, judging by the candlelight casting shadows on the walls. Feeling woolly, he suspected that the last drink Aramis had given him was more than watered ale, but he also felt rested, and so he decided not to challenge his friend on it. But he couldn't resist letting him know he was aware of what he had done.

"The days slip by so quickly," he murmured. "One moment it is morning, and the next, it is dusk."

Aramis straightened, and turned toward him.

Athos's smile faded at the look on his friend's face.

"What is it?" he asked, warily.

Aramis reached out and grasped the back of a chair, bringing it across and sitting down heavily by Athos's side. Athos began to fiddle with the bandage on his fingers, as Aramis stilled.

"Athos," Aramis said, quietly. "Silas died."

Athos slowly raised his head and stared at Aramis.

"What?" he managed.

Aramis sighed as a look of confusion and then utter sadness passed over Athos's face.

"His heart gave out on the way to The Chatelet."

"The Chatelet?" Athos said, so softly that Aramis almost didn't catch it.

"He wasn't under arrest, Athos. As they said, they took him to The Chatelet to identify the Vachons and make a statement. He went willingly, once he knew you would be saved."

"How?" Athos asked, his voice almost inaudible.

"The Red Guard had put him in a wagon to transport him there, but he was taken ill on the journey. Apparently, his heart gave out."

He reached into his jacket.

"He didn't die immediately. He sent you this," he added, holding out his hand.

Athos looked down at Aramis's unfolding fingers.

A red felt hat with a pheasant feather tucked in the band.

Silas had briefly told Athos about the feather. He had tracked that bird for long enough, finally getting him in his sights. But, hungry as he was, he couldn't pull the trigger. The bird was only trying to survive, just like him. So he had shooed it off. It left a single flight feather as it rose ungainly into the air. Silas threaded it through the band on his old, red felt hat.

"Tomorrow," he had said to the bird, "You may not be so lucky, bird. I may be old, but I am not a fool. So, don't be here tomorrow, if you know what's good for you."

He had laughed then and shook his white head as he finished his tale. Athos could almost see him relating the tale. It had made him smile at the time, but now ...

"Oh," Athos groaned softly, letting Aramis place the hat into his hand. "Silas, my dear man."

He looked up at Aramis with shining eyes.

"He gave his arm for France and his life for his friends," he whispered. "And, it seems, for me."

"Oh, I think you can include yourself among his friends, Athos," Aramis replied, fondly. "You gave him the strength for his final battle."

Athos ran his fingers reverently over the feather as he closed his eyes.

**To be continued ...**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **So, Dear Readers, despite the sad news, we learn Silas's secret.

oOo

**Chapter Seventeen**

Athos had fallen silent at the news of Silas's passing.

Even the news of the return of both his horse and his sword had brought little comment, even though he was obviously relieved.

In empathy, the others left him alone with his thoughts. He had spoken little of his captivity, apart from his explanation to d'Artagnan as to why he was reluctant to retaliate, and the briefest replies to their questions.

Was it all for nothing? Had he made the wrong decision? Silas had pleaded with him to "hold his peace" at their first meeting. Silas had done that for a reason. Had he, himself, made the situation worse; giving the Vachons a channel for their brutality? So, would it have been better for them both to go down fighting? Perhaps that would be true, were it not for the information Silas had imparted before he left to find help. And he _had_ found help. If not for Silas, would his brothers have found him? To die like that, alone, though, save for the hardest of men around him. Red Guards and brigands. That was the hardest to bear. Aramis had said he was aware that they three had gone in search of him and would most probably find him. Would Silas know that they would find Athos alive? Did Silas himself think it was worth it? All these thoughts went through his mind, in a never ending cycle and in the end, he apologised for his withdrawal but could not make small talk, nor pull his thoughts up from their melancholic depths. Neither could he accept their platitudes, however well meaning.

The hours he spent ruminating brought him no comfort, nor conclusion. How he wanted to speak to the old man once more.

He passed a restless night, troubled by dreams and frequently waking. As Notre Dame chimed its third bell, Athos felt that he was not, in fact, alone. His brothers had all crept into his room to watch over him. Finally, he fell into a fitful doze.

"Athos can cope with the beatings. He's got a broad back," Aramis said, quietly. "It's the humiliation that will have been hard. He is a proud man."

"Born proud," Porthos muttered.

"But this old man surely helped him?" d'Artagnan offered. "They protected each other."

"Independent too," Porthos added, still lost in his original thought.

"Very," Aramis concurred, casting a glance at d'Artagnan in acknowledgement of his statement. "It would take a special person to get through those noble barriers."

"This Silas must have 'ad somethin' about 'im," Porthos nodded.

They fell silent, so as not to disturb Athos, who remained asleep.

But Athos was not asleep, and had heard every word. As his brothers left a little while later, his hand curled tightly in the sheet and he turned his face into his pillow.

oOo

Breakfast in the small infirmary room was an equally sombre affair;Athos staring into space as the table was laid with food. A short time later, d'Artagnan rubbed an apple on his sleeve as Porthos put bread and meat on four plates and Aramis poured ale.

"I told him it was too far," Athos suddenly said.

They all stopped what they were doing and looked his way.

He was staring at them with anguished eyes.

"He wanted to help you, my friend," Aramis replied softly, knowing his friend would be angry at not being able to help the old man, and grieved at his passing.

"Before he left, he turned back at the door," Athos said, carefully. "He told me something. A secret, but it was an afterthought. Not the main reason he left. Maybe he had a premonition he would not return."

"What did he tell you?" Aramis asked, trying to make sense of Athos's muddled words.

Athos was quiet for a long moment. He had thought to leave it be, but he could not.

"Would one of you fetch the Captain?" Athos finally said. "You should all hear this. What I tell you will reflect either well on Silas, or badly. But I owe him this."

An uneasy silence fell in the room, as Athos waited for one of them to respond to his ominous words.

"I'll go," d'Artagnan said, pushing off the wall and striding quickly from the room, tossing the apple from one had to the other as he went.

oOo

**Silas's Secret**

"What's going on?" Treville said, as he stood in the doorway of the infirmary room a little later.

Everyone looked at Athos.

"I have something to tell you," Athos said, addressing them all. "Something that Silas told me, before he left to get help. As it turns out, it is his final wish," he added. "Although I will defer to you on the matter," he finished, looking at Treville.

Treville came slowly into the room, frowning at Porthos, d'Artagnan and Aramis. Porthos shrugged and pulled out a chair for Treville, who cautiously sat.

d'Artagnan slipped past the Captain to stand with his back to the window, hands tucked into his arms in his customary stance.

"It seems," Athos began, looking down at his hands, "That there is buried treasure in the barn."

No-one spoke, as his statement hung in the air.

"What?" Porthos blurted, totally taken aback at the revelation.

Athos sighed. He hoped he was doing the right thing in telling the tale, but Silas had singled him out to be the holder of the information. Silas was gone now and it befell to him to carry on where Silas had left off when the Vachons had first appeared.

"Silas buried a treasure cache in his barn," Athos explained. "Or should I say," he added, "The spoils of war."

"Where?" d'Artagnan enquired. "Nothing looked out of place. In fact," he added, "There was nothing there."

"He said it was buried under a cart," Athos replied, meeting their confused stares.

"The cart we brought here," Porthos concluded, looking at Aramis and d'Artagnan.

"Quite," Athos agreed, having heard the tale, told in fun, but now deadly serious, it seemed.

"As you know, Silas was a soldier," Athos continued. "When he came home ... when he was _discharged_," he corrected, "He did not come home empty-handed. He rebuilt the village with it. The whole area benefited. That is perhaps why the Tavern owner was amenable to finally seeking help."

"What, exactly did Silas say, Athos?" Treville prompted, leaning forward.

And so, Athos related what he knew of Silas's tale.

oOo

When Athos finished telling his Captain and his friends what Silas had quickly whispered to him that fateful morning before he left, no-one knew what to say.

It was Aramis who broke the silence.

He was agitated, though Athos was prepared for their reactions. He had had many thoughts about it himself, alone in the barn after Silas had gone. His main purpose, though, he decided, was to keep the information to himself. If the Vachons had discovered the cache, Silas's legacy would be forfeit. For that is how, after much heartache, Athos had come to see the cache.

"And you condone it?" Aramis said, incredulously.

Of all of them, he expected the most outspoken reaction to come from him.

Treville remained deep in thought, his arms crossed, as he prepared to listen to the ensuing argument.

"Yes!" Athos all but snarled, cutting off any further comment.

"In this case, yes," he continued, a little more subdued.

"I would have preferred to talk in more detail with Silas," Athos said, "But that is now not possible. Silas said the village was made up of old soldiers and their wives. That is why they could not defend themselves. That is why Silas did not want them to try. He sent them away until it was over, one way or another. There were no young men to fight. Silas gave succour to _old comrades_, Aramis. He had been using the money to help them. For years.

"So, in this case," he finished, in full flow now, "Yes, I condone it. For, if not them, who else would have taken it? The generals for their drapes and tapestries, furniture and fine cutlery? Or, for fine dresses for their wives and mistresses? Or the mercenaries of war, who ravaged the land?"

Aramis rubbed the back of his neck, his hand finally straying to the plain cross he wore around his neck.

"Or do you think the church should have it?" Athos said tersely, watching him. "To add to the coffers that sit behind locked doors, while people like Silas starve on their doorsteps?"

"Or the King, to fund more wars?" he hissed.

"_Athos ..." _Aramis chided, eyeing the Captain, worried that Athos was straying into dangerous territory; something he would normally never do.

Treville, however, remained silent, as Athos turned a hard gaze on Aramis.

"Let us beg to differ on this, Aramis," he said brusquely, ending the discussion.

In response, Aramis raised his eyebrows, but finally, in deference to Athos no doubt, and to the old man who had saved his village _and_ his friend's life, Aramis let the matter drop. For now.

In the silence that followed, Treville took his leave and quietly slipped thoughtfully away.

"_Athos ..._" Aramis began, as soon as Treville had closed the door.

"Please," Athos interrupted. "No more." He looked at each of them, his eyes hollow. "Leave me to my thoughts, if you will."

Aramis stood his ground for a few moments, quietly assessing him. His friend was exhausted, bruised, sad and now, conflicted. He could see the emotions warring in his friend's face and body language. Silas had placed a burden upon him, but at least he had shared it. There would be no talking to him now though, although he had many questions and so he nodded in acquiescence and picked up his jacket. A discussion would be had though, it was inevitable.

As they filed from the room, they each reached out and gently touched Athos on the shoulder. He did not respond, though he did not repel them.

Later, single footsteps heralded someone's return.

Athos looked up warily as the door opened, and Treville looked in.

"May I?" he asked, tentatively.

Athos gave him the briefest of smiles, wondering what he had been told, after his earlier departure.

"That was quite a revelation," the Captain grunted, as he pulled a chair across and sat down, waiting.

"Imagine my initial reaction," Athos replied, gruffly.

Treville pulled at his earlobe and huffed.

"I can imagine," he said. "Do you know how Silas came to be possession of such plunder?"

Athos winced at the word. The Captain was right, however; it was, indeed, plunder.

"No, he did not have time to elaborate, although earlier in our acquaintance, when he spoke of the Battle of Arques, he said his comrades were "grateful to him."

Treville hummed, lost in thought.

"My apologies," Athos murmured, watching him.

"What are you apologising for?" Treville looked up sharply and pinned him with his famous steel-blue gaze.

"I have laid this problem at your door," Athos explained, quietly. "And I have no idea what to do. And so," he sighed, "I apologise once more, for being glad to relinquish it."

Treville laughed.

"I have had worse problems to deal with," he conceded. "Although a considerable number of them "_came to my door_," from you four," he added.

"_I_ ..." Athos began, only to be stopped by Treville's raised hand.

"Don't apologise again. Twice in one day is enough," he growled.

Athos shifted. His knee thrummed and the stitches in his thigh sent a bolt of heat through him, but he hardly noticed in the scheme of things.

"What will you do?" he ventured.

"At this moment, I have no idea," Treville admitted, rubbing the stubble on his jaw.

They sat in silence for a few moments, before Athos asked the question, that, for Silas's sake, he dreaded.

"Will you return it?"

Treville sat back, the chair creaking under his weight, a deep frown on his face. Finally, his gaze lightened and he reached out his hand and laid it lightly on Athos's arm. He had heard Athos's argument with Aramis earlier, and it had played on his mind as he had sat in his office.

"Return what?" he finally replied. "And, after the passing of so many years, to who?"

Athos breathed out, his features softening for the first time that day.

"My thoughts exactly," he replied, softly.

"But I have thought on it," Treville added, "I would like to look into Silas's military record," he said. "Depending upon the outcome, I would like to share any findings with you."

Athos was encouraged by his Captain's words, and tilted his head in agreement. Whatever the Captain found out, however, would either cast Silas in a positive light, or a negative one.

With that silent understanding between them, Treville produced half a bottle of cognac from his jacket.

"In the meantime," he said, "I think we can offer a "medicinal" toast to the old man, for his care of you. Captain's orders."

"I would like that," Athos smiled.

Treville reached across for two cups that were on the bedside table, shook them out, and poured two generous amounts.

"The rest of his tale," Treville added, "Will no doubt come soon enough."

**To be continued ...**


	18. Chapter 18

Many thanks to all for continuing to read and review. Thanks to **Doubtful Guest **and those who I cannot thank personally.

oOo

**Chapter Eighteen**

Three days later saw Athos propped carefully on a bank of pillows.

Aramis had earlier snipped through the stitches in his earlobe and been gratified to see that it had healed well. Now, Aramis was once again working warmed oil into the tight muscles of his shoulders.

"You'll be able to hold a sword soon enough," Aramis said, as he worked.

"I cannot even hold a fork," Athos grunted through gritted teeth.

He looked across at Aramis, who shrugged in sympathy.

"Although, I have known Porthos wield a fork as a weapon," Athos conceded, as he closed his eyes and Aramis laughed.

d'Artagnan carefully wrapped a cold cloth around Athos's still-swollen knee, avoiding the bandage on his thigh. As he did so, Athos emitted a contented sigh. After a few moments, he opened his eyes and, at the sight of him looking at them, Aramis and d'Artagnan paused.

"Don't stop," Athos said, softly.

Aramis looked at d'Artagnan and smiled.

"Carry on, while he is compliant," he said.

"Who knows how long it will last?" d'Artagnan agreed, as he bent his head and continued to wrap Athos's knee, before wiping his hands on a towel he had placed on the bed.

Just then, Porthos came in, carrying clean sheets.

He waved a pillowcase at Athos.

"From Madame Crecy*" he said, giving Athos a knowing look and a wink. "Special delivery," he added, as he put it at the foot of the bed. Athos gave him a soft smile and close his eyes once more, going back to enjoying their ministrations.

"She said don't get oil on it," Porthos said, tapping his hand on Aramis's head.

"How did she know I was using oil?" Aramis said, looking up.

"Beats me," Porthos grunted, before tossing d'Artagnan a fresh roll of bandages. "For you."

"How did she know I was wrapping his knee?" d'Artagnan asked, as Porthos dropped the sheets onto the cupboard top in the corner and began opening drawers.

"Don't question it," Athos murmured. "Or she will know."

He opened an eye and squinted at them, and they all laughed.

They passed a quiet few moments, each bent on their individual tasks.

"You don't mind missing the trial?" Aramis then asked Athos, bringing them back down to earth. It was scheduled for two days time.

"No," Athos murmured. "I have given Treville my account. I have no desire to look upon their faces again."

"Well," Aramis concluded, "Rest assured we three will be going. To ensure justice is served."

"I don't doubt it will be," Athos replied. "I expect a full report on your return," he added as he sank back into the pillows and closed his eyes.

Porthos grunted. It was understandable that Athos would not wish to see the Vachon's faces again. He also doubted that his brother would wish the Vachons to see _him_ in his current state, though he did not voice it.

"Oh," Porthos suddenly said, remembering an earlier message. "The Cap'n wants to see me."

"About what?" Aramis asked, pausing to look at him with a raised eyebrow.

"No idea," Porthos replied, shrugging his shoulders. "But I better get a move on. He's not been in a good mood lately."

Porthos strode from the room, as the others exchanged looks.

"Think he's in trouble?" Aramis asked, silently running through a list of possible misdemeanours in his head.

"If he is, we'll know soon enough. The stables don't clean themselves," d'Artagnan laughed, as they heard the outer door bang shut.

As it turned out, Porthos had done nothing wrong. Treville had a job him.

Now, as Porthos stood before his desk, Treville reached for a missive on his desk.

"I received a message this morning from the owner of the Flagon Noir tavern," he said.

Treville looked up briefly, waiting for Porthos to confirm he knew the tavern in question as the scene of the Vachon's arrest.

"It seems," he said, as Porthos, who was standing in front of him, hands braced in his belt, nodded. "Some of the Silas's old comrades have returned to the village. Word of his passing has reached them, wherever they have been. And also, of the arrest of their tormentors."

"And they know the Vachon brothers are due to stand trial?" Porthos asked.

"They do," Treville replied. "That is why I want you to return. See if you can persuade one or two to return with you and attend the trial. Their word will be invaluable."

"You think it's needed?" Porthos growled. "Haven't they done enough to be sentenced?"

"Let's make sure, Porthos," Treville replied. "As it stands, they are accused of assault on one of the King's Musketeers and destruction of property and crops. The rest is hearsay. There are no witnesses to their most nefarious crimes. Testimony of the kind that those villagers can give will, as I say, be invaluable. And also, a deterrent, should others try and mimic their brutality. It has gone quiet of late, but we don't want a repeat of such actions. The King will want justice, but he will also want to be seen to be on the side of the common people. The Cardinal will endorse that. So, let us not take any chances. For Athos's sake, and for that of Silas Marchant."

Their King could be capricious, but in matters such as this and with the added weight of Cardinal Richelieu's counsel, and now hopefully with testimony from some of the villagers, the outcome did not look positive for Athos's captors.

"Take the cart, Porthos," Treville said. "Return it to the village. It is their property. If they are willing to return with you, you will have the means to transport them. And they can then return the same way. We will, of course, escort them safely home. Ensure that they know that.

"In the meantime," Treville continued, "I will ensure there are lodgings near the Justice Court. They can enjoy what Paris has to offer for a few days. I am sure the King would be amenable to providing a little largesse in the circumstances. Hopefully, we will have a good outcome at the trial and the sentence will be carried out the next day. If they do not wish to stay and watch the sentence being carried out, they do not need to."

Porthos did a quick calculation. It had taken them two hours to return to Paris from Silas's village, at a slow pace. He could be back by nightfall if he left at once. However, if he was to prevail upon traumatised people to return with him and face their assailants, he would need to take a few offerings with him.

"_If_ I can persuade some of them to come back with me," Porthos said, not wishing to dampen his Captain's opptimism.

"I have every faith in you," Treville replied. "They may be old, but if they have half the mettle that Silas had, they will want to see justice done. We owe them the opportunity."

Porthos took his leave and went straight to the stables, where the cart had been stored.

Some of the Musketeers had taken it upon themselves to repair and maintain it. The axles were freshly greased and iron strips had been hammered into place along the wheel rims. A few loose planks had been nailed back in place and the woodwork was oiled.

He stood and admired it, remembering the state it had been in when he had first discovered it. Running his fingers along the sides, he hummed in satisfaction. His comrades had done a good job. Walking over to his horse, he stroked his muzzle.

"I'm gonna ask this of you just one last time," he whispered. "I know it's demeanin', but I can't do this without you. Extra hay for you when we get back, yeah?"

The horse nickered, and Porthos turned, so see Jacques smirking in the doorway.

Porthos allowed a smile to pull at his lips. "Horse," he said to the boy, "Cart," he pointed. "Get them ready, and I'll be back within the hour."

"Yes, Porthos," Jacques said, running across to the tack, hanging at the back of the stables.

oOo

After a brief explanation to Aramis, Porthos set off with d'Artagnan on a quick shopping expedition. An hour later, when he pulled out of the Garrison, the cart held a wooden crate with six hens, a separate crate with a cockerel and a third with a pair of geese. Also onboard were two sacks of grain and a sack of seed. d'Artagnan had said if the villagers were returning, they would need to sow winter crops soon.

"See you later," d'Artagnan said, as he slapped Porthos's horse on the rump.

The horse shook his mane and moved smartly off through the archway under Porthos's guidance. If the horse felt demeaned, he didn't show it.

d'Artagnan watched as the cart disappeared along the street, before turning and heading back to the Infirmary.

Above him, Treville watched from his balcony, satisfied that Porthos had his mission firmly in hand.

oOo

Porthos made good headway and covered the ground a little more quickly than when he had an injured friend in the back, and had been wary of every bump and dip in the road. The cart was in much better shape this time, and the weather was good. Soon enough, after only one brief stop to check the cart and water his horse, the first building came into view.

It was a strange feeling returning and Porthos steeled himself for his eventual first sight of the barn.

However, he had not gone far along the village track when ahead he saw an old man and an old woman, standing in front of what must have been their house. The man had got the door open, and the woman was sitting on the step, her head in her hands, weeping.

At the sound of the cart, they looked up sharply and watched him suspiciously.

Porthos steadily pulled his horse and cart to a standstill and raised a gloved hand in greeting. Pointing at his pauldron, he smiled, trying to look as friendly as he could. But these people were frightened, he could see.

"Porthos," he called. "Of the King's Musketeers."

The man came out from the doorway and Porthos could see he was limping badly. He turned and picked up a crutch that was standing against one of the posts holding the roof up.

"Here to talk about Silas," Porthos added, looking in concern at their frightened faces.

At that, the woman wiped her face on her apron and stood.

"Silas is dead," she whispered.

"I know," Porthos nodded. "And your village is ruined. By the Vachon brothers."

The old man spat on the ground.

"We are seeking justice for him," Porthos pressed on, dropping the reins and jumping down.

"You can help, if you want to," he added.

"Of course we want to!" the old man replied. "But how? Look around you, Musketeer. We have to start again. And without Silas, I don't know where to begin."

Porthos had been under strict instructions from Treville not to mention the cache currently buried in the barn. The Captain was still searching the archives for more information, and until such time, it would remain undiscovered. Silas had obviously not wanted the villagers to know about it, in case is sewed resentment. Such things could. He must have had managed it very carefully.

"The Musketeers will help you," Porthos confirmed, waving at the cart. "I've brought provisions. How many are there of you?"

The old man and woman went over to the cart, their eyes alighting on the birds and the sacks.

"There is more where that came from," Porthos added. "But we ask one thing of you."

The old man looked at him, but there was now determination in his eyes.

"There are six of us. What is it you ask of us?" he asked, putting his arm around his wife.

And so, Porthos told them.

**To be continued …**

oOo

**A/N: ***Madame Crecy first appeared in Chapter 40 of "Infirmary Talks," another of my stories. She is the Garrison's formidable Laundress, with a particular soft spot for The Inseparables.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

**The Trial:**

The courtroom was a bare room in the Justice building; one of several rooms within the building, for Paris was awash with miscreants and the lists of cases to be heard was long that morning.

The day before, three men and one woman had arrived back in Paris, courtesy of Porthos, who had driven them straight to the address that the Musketeer Guard had given him at the Garrison.

The rooms allocated in the lodging house were well-apportioned. Only the number of rooms needed to be communicated to the owners, as Treville had no knowledge of how many, if any, villagers would be availing themselves of the Crown's hospitality.

The three men had come willingly in the end, much to Porthos's relief. The woman, Sarah, had joined them "to keep an eye on them." Paris held a myriad of temptations and these old soldiers had lived a raucous life before returning from the wars of their youth and settling down, and indeed, growing old and infirm. Still, Sarah believed there was life left in them and she was determined that, having made the journey to Paris, they would return to the task of rebuilding their village.

They also needed clear heads if they were to go before a judge.

Porthos and Aramis had shown them around the central quarters of Paris, taking in the Louvre and Tuilleries Palace, the latter having been the royal residence of Henry IV, the first Bourbon monarch and father of the reigning King, Louis XIII. The old comrades, as well as Silas Marchant had served under the old King but had never had the opportunity to see such a magnificent residence. In any case, Paris had changed much of the last few decades, due to the self serving efforts of the King's mother, Marie de Medici.

Royal power had grown following the old King's death, with civil conflict a thing of the past. As a result, the unprecedented growth in royal power and authority was reflected in the architecture of the period. Town houses had sprung up in close proximity to the medieval core of Paris; prime housing for nobles and wealthy burghers. The magnificent "Place Royale" was Paris's first purpose-built square - the plans laid down by the old King who had begun to sell plots to buyers who agreed to build their houses along and facing into the square.

Along the way, Aramis picked a yellow rose for Sarah, giving her an elegant bow as he presented it. The old lady giggled like a young girl as she accepted it.

On the evening, they had taken the men to The Wren, under strict instructions from Sarah to return them with "level heads." She herself remained in the lodging house, which offered more comfort than she had been used to for some time. She propped herself on a comfortable chair in her room, her rose cradled gently in her hands, and watched the world go by below her from her window. The men had duly returned by their two Musketeer guides, mildly drunk but content. All too soon, they had gathered their thoughts for the morning before Aramis and Porthos took their leave, promising to collect them in time to walk to the Justice building in the morning.

True to their word, early the next morning, Aramis and Porthos collected the small party, d'Artagnan having remained in Athos's company back in the Infirmary.

The route was short, the streets now teeming with traders and Parisians going about their business; more for the villagers to take in. The fashions had made Sarah's eyes widen, as the horseflesh did for the men. Paris was, indeed, an overwhelming place.

Soon, the building came into view and Aramis ushered them in, giving their names to the clerk. They took their place in the allocated court room and looked around in quiet awe. The room was windowless and it was full; the air musty with the smell of stale sweat as people jostled each other to obtain a vantage point for the coming spectacle. The four pushed through the noisy throng and stood at the back, watching as the officials entered. Eventually, the clerk shouted for quiet and the Judge entered. A stern looking man, he glanced around the room with a practised eye, before taking his seat at the high desk.

The four villagers watched the proceedings, shoulder to shoulder at the back of the room.

Porthos and Aramis flanked the Judge's desk, in uniform, and keeping an eye on the assembled crowd.

Several cases were heard without preamble and the accused marched out to their fate, under the control of the Red Guard. Having seen the Red Guard, Sarah was in no doubt that she much preferred the look of the King's Musketeers, all together much more handsome in their blue cloaks and much more courteous.

Soon enough the moment came and the three Vachon brothers were brought into the room.

Heavily manacled, they were flanked by two Red Guard, plus the Court's own guards; large men who brooked no nonsense. They came to a shuffling halt in front of the Judge's desk, eyes roving the crowd menacingly.

Porthos and Aramis looked up then, as Captain Treville walked in, straight from his duty at the Palace. He was called to read out Athos's statement, explaining why his Musketeer Lieutenant could not attend himself. Following that, the three village men were called forward and each answered questions and told their individual stories of the Vachon's heinous deeds. The three villagers stood straight-backed, side by side in front of the Judge and Raymond glowered toward the back of the room where they had come from, catching Sarah's eye.

He winked and she pressed her lips into a grim line, holding his gaze.

"I hope you hang and rot in Hell, you devil," she murmured under her breath, though several people around her heard her words and nodded in agreement, having heard the damning evidence put before them.

In the end, the testimony of three veterans who had endured months of the Vachon's systematic brutality was conclusive.

Porthos stared at the three brothers standing before him, wishing he could just have five minutes with each one.

Finally, he leant over to Aramis.

"Look at 'is face," he said proudly, nodding toward Henri Vachon. "Athos got 'im good. That nose is well and truly broken."

Aramis smiled back, turning his smile purposefully onto Henri, who glowered at them.

When it came to Raymond, the taller and obviously older brother, they both stared unblinking and unsmiling at him.

The Judge rapped his hammer on his desk and the crowd hushed.

Pronouncing sentence, the Judge decreed that Raymond and Henri Vachon would hang at noon the following day and Phillipe would be imprisoned in The Chatelet for the rest of his life. A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd.

"Life in prison?" Porthos grunted, not entirely happy with that particular outcome.

"As a deterrent," Aramis whispered. "To anyone who wishes to follow in the Vachon's footsteps."

Porthos would have preferred for all three to hang but Phillipe, it seemed, had been pulled along in his brother's wakes from a young age. All in all, though, he wondered if it was worse to be imprisoned for life than to hang. Word would spread around The Chatelet of the prisoner who languished at the King's Pleasure and would never be freed. A miserable existence, indeed.

Porthos and Aramis relaxed and nodded to the three villagers. Porthos turned his head and found Sarah at the back of the room and gave her his best smile, which she returned. It would soon be over.

Raymond and Henri glowered at Aramis and Porthos as they were roughly manhandled from the court, shouting obscenities at the blue cloaks in front of them. Both Musketeers had made sure they wore their pauldrons and cloaks so that the prisoners were in no doubt who they were.

Outside, the villagers, rather than stay another night in order to watch the hangings, had decided to return home to begin the work of restoring their village. It was a satisfying end to the Vachon's tyrannical rule over them, but they had seen enough violence in their lives and wished to put it behind them.

Back at the Garrison and with a promise to return with a contingent of Musketeers to help them begin their mammoth task, they took possession of their cart, now harnessed to a spare horse loaned to them by the regiment and began to say their farewells.

"We will drink a toast to Silas tonight, my friends," Aramis said, as they all shook hands.

"Before we go," one of the veterans said, looking at the others, "We would like to meet Silas's Musketeer."

oOo

**The Infirmary:**

Footsteps alerted Athos and d'Artagnan to the imminent arrival of several people. They glanced at each other as they waited for the door to open. When it did, it was Treville who entered alone, moving across the room to make way for those who would follow him.

"Guilty," he said, gruffly.

Athos caught Aramis's eye, and his friend nodded. No doubt, the details would be relayed in due course.

"There are some people here to see you," Treville said, looking at Athos. "I think you may wish to hear them," he added, softly, as he nodded toward the door.

Porthos ushered four people into the room. Three men and a woman, looking very out of place in their lowly clothing, but determined. Porthos and Aramis slipped in behind them. The small room was suddenly very crowded as Aramis and d'Artagnan hurriedly brought chairs in from the outer room. They all quietly sat and, after introductions, each person spoke.

Slowly, a more detailed story Silas's life unfolded.

He had been a soldier for the old King, Louis's father; drafted in from his Liege Lord's farm when he was a young man. He had fought in many campaigns until he was about Treville's age, one of them said, which brought a gruff smile to their Captain's face. His life in the army had ended when he lost his arm. Instead of being bitter, Silas came home and helped build up the village into a thriving community. He was loved by them all. When Raymond and his men had taken over, it was Silas who encouraged them to flee, taking what they could, while he stayed to protect the barn which he said was a valuable asset.

Treville's suspicions were correct; the villagers had no idea that Silas had been given the spoils from his comrades in arms. He had made no mention of the cache currently buried in their barn, but Treville was sure that none of them seemed to have questioned where Silas got the money to do what he did, only that he had been pensioned off. It did not seem to have mattered. It was good to know how they felt about the old man though.

"You said that the barn was an asset," Porthos said, looking across at Athos, knowingly.

"For storage and refuge for the whole village, in times of need," Athos replied, carefully, meeting his gaze.

"We held dances in there," the woman, Sarah, spoke up softly. "And all manner of village activities and festivals. Silas said it was the glue that held us all together."

"It was the heart of the village. It was a happy village. Silas made sure of it," one of the men said.

"Until they came," another one added.

"It will rise again," Treville said, looking at Athos, who held his gaze and inclined his head.

"I am sending a detail to begin to turn your fields over so that you can plant new crops." Treville continued. "I am certain you will find the means to begin again, with a little help. I have spoken with The King today and he has promised your village protection, should such a situation arise again. It is up to you now whether you wish to start again."

"We do, Captain Treville," their spokesperson, Hugo, said. "For Silas. He could not bear injustice."

After they had gone, Aramis sat quietly alone with Athos.

"Do you feel better about the situation now?" Aramis asked, gently.

Athos sighed, as he gathered his thoughts.

"I still feel my arrival became a catalyst of sorts," he replied. "Perhaps Silas would still be ..."

"No," Aramis interrupted abruptly, raising his hand and cutting him off;

"The tavern owner said they spoke of burning the village to the ground, Athos," Aramis explained firmly. "Your arrival distracted them from that. Small consolation, I know. But knowing Silas as you do now, he was a very determined man. His age was unfortunately against him."

"It was good to know he had built a good life," Athos conceded. "For himself and others. I only knew his bravery and kindness for a very short time."

"He saved your life," Aramis replied. "Your King and your friends are grateful," he added with a sincere smile; tilting his head, his hand over his heart.

Athos returned his smile, briefly, before he spoke;

"What turns some men into animals, while those who are sorely used become the best of men?" he sighed, looking at the feather on the small table next to his bed.

"I have no idea, my dear friend," Aramis replied, watching Athos as he managed to painfully reach out and pick up the feather. "But the world is a better place for such men," he added.

Aramis smiled fondly as Athos turned to look at him.

"It is," Athos replied, the sentiment seemingly lost on him, as most compliments were.

Aramis let it go and poured them both a drink. Passing one over, he held his own cup aloft.

"To Silas," he said, quietly. "And to peace."

They both touched glasses and drained their cups.

But peace is hard won and easily lost. As they were to find out at first light, when a rider brought Treville disturbing news.

Raymond Vachon had escaped.

**To be continued ...**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

Raymond Vachon had spent the best part of his life thieving and bribing. The Chatelet was a formidable place but prisoners came and went at all hours and the guards were as corruptible as the next man trying to survive. The only way those men made any extra was from the prisoners who offered them something and Raymond had the means to make a very acceptable offer.

A single gold coin, hidden in his boot, was enough to convince a man that there was more. It always was. That coin had got Raymond out of many situations. A little trust was required on the guard's part, but if the alternative was seeing his reward marched to the gallows and getting nothing but another brigand to fill the vacant cell, most were willing to take the chance.

Raymond didn't know where his brothers were and he didn't have the time to find out. The crowd would be gathering in the square soon, ready to watch the hangings at noon. As his chosen guard went off duty, the man passed him his hooded cloak and Raymond delivered a right hook, as arranged, leaving him crumpled on the ground; to be found later by the next watch. The guard would be berated and disciplined but they were hanging seven men that morning and would have their hands full. There would be chaos for a while as the other prisoners created mayhem at the sight of men being led, and in some cases, dragged, from their cells to meet their deaths.

Raymond, tall and strong in his acquired hooded cloak and unknown to the off duty guards who pushed out of the gate to get to their homes and taverns, slipped among them and out into the darkness before the dawn.

oOo

Word of Raymond's escape had reached Treville quickly, passed from Red Guard to Musketeers on duty at the Louvre and consequently borne on swift horse to the Garrison.

"How?!" Porthos had growled as Treville hastily arranged to double his guard in the square.

"That's for another time," he had growled back. "I want you and Aramis in that square, eyes open. Phillipe is still in custody but Henri hangs at noon. That execution_ will_ happen. I want men on the roof, looking out for Raymond."

"They won't know what he looks like," Porthos argued.

"They'll know a disturbance when they see it!" Treville retorted angrily. "Shoot to kill. Henri is not to escape too."

Outside Treville's office, Aramis turned to Porthos.

"We need to talk to Athos," he said.

oOo

"You have spent time in Raymond's "company," Athos," Aramis said carefully, as they gathered in Athos's room to discuss the disturbing news. "Any ideas as to what he will do?"

Athos was thoughtful. Aramis noted that Silas's red hat now lay on top of the bedside table.

Ever since he had been given Silas's hat, Athos had struggled to comprehend why the old man would relinquish it, and to him. Silas had not struck him as a sentimental man. More a pragmatic one with a careful and considered mind. At the news of Raymond's escape earlier, he had taken the hat from the drawer. As his eyes had fallen on the feather, he had tucked it back in place in the hat band and in doing so, felt a trickle of understanding.

It had been anger that he had initially felt, when first given the hat, once the sadness at the old man's passing had eased. But the feather spoke of mercy on Silas's part. Silas had offered the pheasant a chance at life. Silas must have known he was not going to live through the heart attack that felled him, and his last thought was to send a message to Athos.

Silas had offered the pheasant only one chance. There was to be no mercy if they met again, he had told that bird. Athos had understood that there was a message in the gift, and now he understood what that message was. Silas had not trusted The Chatelet to hold Raymond. His message was No Mercy! No second chances! Athos was not in a mood to be merciful. The old man had sent him a message, and he had heard.

When he answered Aramis, there was steel in his voice.

"He will come for his brother," he said. "You should prepare."

Aramis and Porthos looked doubtful, but Athos pressed his point.

"What about you?" Porthos asked.

"I am no use to you," Athos shot back. "If you want to recapture him, lay in wait in the square. He will come. He is their brother."

"I'll stay," d'Artagnan spoke up, offering reassurance to Porthos and Aramis.

Eventually, Aramis and Porthos agreed and set off to take their place in the square with their brother Musketeers to carry out Treville's orders.

As d'Artagnan closed the door, he leant on it and looked across to Athos, who's eyes were now on Silas's hat once more.

"Is there anything you want?" he asked, softly.

Athos looked up and then pointed to a chair.

"Silas told me about the Battle of Arques," he replied. "Would you like to hear it?"

As a distraction for them both, that sounded a possibility. d'Artagnan tilted his head, before replying.

"Why not?" he smiled, moving away from the door toward the chair.

oOo

The morning had dawned gray and damp, which was unusual for the season.

A large crowd had gathered to watch the hangings.

Seven climbed the steps; a rag tag of villains and miscreants, shuffling for place for their final performance. Henri stood at the end, scowling at the crowd. His face still bore the bruises given to him by Athos, though now faded to a sickly yellow and green.

As he cast his eyes down on the crowd, two men stood out in their blue capes. They were carefully scanning the crowd behind them. Looking up at the rooves of the buildings that surrounded the large quadrant, Henri followed their eyes and saw other Musketeers peering over the parapets, also searching. He smiled to himself.

The Vachon brother's reign of terror had come to an end when the Red Guard had stormed into the Flagon Noir and arrested them. But Raymond had escaped, leaving Henri and Phillipe to take their punishment. Phillipe, though, was not beside him on the scaffold. He had been told that his sentence was to life imprisonment. Perhaps that was worse than hanging, Henri had thought when he heard. The guard had certainly delighted in informing him.

The guard had also told him that Louis XIII had taken their sustained attack on one of his Musketeers quite personally. At the trial, people lined up to denounce them. It turned out that they had been much more viscous than had previously been thought, as more and more people spoke out against them, emboldened by the fact that they were in custody and perhaps by the possibility that it may be a public execution and they could finally put their fears to rest.

Looking down at the crowd now, Henri recognised many of the faces that had crammed into the courtroom, looking up at him with expressions of satisfaction.

Added to Phillipe's woes, though, was that he was required to view the hanging of his brothers on this grey day that would be their last. Now, only Henri stood on the scaffold He had avoided looking at his younger brother. Memories of their boyhood would not serve him now. And so, Henri turned his attention back to the Musketeers, their attention still taken by the vast crowd behind them.

"Raymond will not come for me, Musketeers!" he shouted at them, over the excited crowd.

When the dark-skinned Musketeer turned bored eyes back to him, Henri grinned, showing his black teeth.

"There is only one man he's interested in," he sneered, as the rope was put over his head.

He started to laugh as the man's expression changed, and watched as the Musketeer turned to his comrade. Henri read the man's lips as the Musketeer shouted one word.

"Athos!"

The two men turned and pushed through the crowd, rushing from the square.

Behind them, the crash of the trapdoor and the collective gasp from the crowd told them that Henri Vachon was dead.

oOo

Aramis and Porthos ran from the square and into the streets. The Garrison was not far, but it seemed to take an age to get there. People scattered in their wake as they ran, hands on their weapons and cloaks flying behind them.

Ahead the Garrison came into view at last; the guard above the gate watched their frantic approach and frowned as they ran through the archway and toward the Infirmary where they disappeared behind the banging door. Aramis threw himself at the inner door and slowed as he saw the door to Athos's room standing ajar. Surging forward, they rushed into the room.

There was no sign of Athos or d'Artagnan. The room was empty.

"Where the 'ell are they!" Porthos shouted, slapping his palm on the wall.

"Athos was wrong," Aramis said, turning to stare at Porthos.

They both turned and raced back out.

**To be continued ...**


	21. Chapter 21

Three chapters to go! Thanks to all for reading and reviewing.

oOo

**Chapter Twenty One **

**Earlier:**

Athos wrapped his right arm around d'Artagnan's waist, hooking his fingers into his belt. They both wore their cloaks and if anyone looked, it was not obvious that d'Artagnan was lending assistance.

d'Artagnan waved at the Guard on the wall nonchalantly, and the man waved back, seeing nothing amiss. Musketeers had been coming and going since early light. News of a prisoner's escape and the executions meant the whole Garrison was busy. The guard did cast a wary eye at Athos, having not seen him since they had brought him back. It was good to see him on his feet once more.

"We are going to my rooms," Athos shouted up at him. "I have grown tired of my surroundings," he added.

d'Artagnan looked up and made a quick drinking motion with his hand and smiled. The guard laughed and turned away.

Once out of sight, Athos's gaze slid to his companion and he raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry," d'Artagnan muttered. "I meant both of us," he added, sheepishly.

Athos huffed non-committally and they moved away through the archway and turned right into the street.

They had only gone a little way down the street when Athos stepped to the side and leaned against the wall. d'Artagnan moved to stand in front of him, shielding him from view as people walked by. The people of the district were so used to seeing the Musketeers coming and going they rarely raised an eyebrow. Today, of course, they knew of the executions taking place at noon, so the Musketeers would be wearing their cloaks and pauldrons. d'Artagnan and Athos continued to blend in in that regard, but Athos rarely liked to draw attention to himself. If he could remain on his feet, all would be well.

This was the first time Athos had walked so far. He had taken a turn around the room a few times, usually on his own, as he knew that if his brothers saw him, he would immediately forfeit his freedom. His knee, though not as swollen as it had been, was stiff and felt as if the bones beneath the skin grated. His ribs were not yet healed and therefore he still had to regulate his breathing in order not to disturb them. The bruises around his eye were now a lighter hew of blue, tending toward green, but at least his eye was open and he could see. The fingers of his left hand were still splintered and he had tucked that hand into his partially unbuttoned jacket to support it.

His thigh was healing well, but the lack of bandage meant that it chafed on the leather of his breeches, for it was the first time he had donned his uniform. And then, of course, there was the matter of his shoulders. He still could not raise his arms above his head, hence his purchase around d'Artagnan's waist.

Their destination was, indeed, Athos's rooms on the Rue Ferou. Athos walked the straight, cobbled street every day, but today, as he raised his head, it looked as if it stretched far into the distance and he was aware of how he listed into d'Artagnan's steady weight, the air now hissing through his teeth between held breaths.

"Alright?" d'Artagnan said softly, unsure if he was doing right in this. But how could he refuse his mentor's request to return to his own space, having been confined for days?

"Absolutely," Athos ground out and, taking a steadying breath, he moved away from the wall, and together, they proceeded steadily to their destination.

oOo

Meanwhile, in one of the narrow streets of the Faubourg Saint-Aintoine district, the Apothecary shop was just opening. Inside, a man in a white apron opened the internal shutters and turned the key, although he did not open the door. The street was slowly coming to life, though there were still only one or two people moving around, workers who's day began at the crack of dawn.

Having waited for the sign of life, a man slowly approached. Holding his ribs, he shuffled to the door, his hand on the handle. When the door creaked open, a bell above him rang and the man in the apron, now standing behind the counter with his back to him, turned around.

"Good morning, Monsieur," he said, taking in the appearance of his first customer with a practised eye.

The man shuffled forward, bent forward, his hand clamped to his side.

"You look in need of assistance," the Apothecary said, coming around the counter.

"Pain relief," the man gasped. "I was thrown from my horse. My ribs ..."

"Of course," the man replied. "Would you like me to examine you?"

"No," the man replied. "I am on my way to see my physician but I fear I will not get much further without something to take the edge of this pain."

The Apothecary hesitated, though he could not deny that the man was in a great deal of discomfort.

"I have willow bark," he said, turning to the set of small drawers built into the wall behind him.

"Something stronger," the customer said, instantly. "Laudanum."

The Apothecary looked up, in time to see the gold coin in the man's hand. He licked his lips.

"Very well," he replied, turning back to open another drawer.

As he did so, the room went dark.

Turning, he saw that the man, now straight, and obviously fully recovered, had pulled the shutter on the door. Advancing toward him, his eye on the prize and the gold coin back in his pocket, he sneered.

"That will do very well," he said.

He did not need a weapon. He was practised in the fine art of strangulation.

After, the Apothecary stowed in the back room, the man picked up a parchment with the establishment's name emboldened across the top in red and gold letters. Smiling to himself, he re-rolled it and tucked it into his cloak.

Taking the key from the dead man's apron pocket, he let himself out and locked the door behind him. Along the way, his tossed the key into the mouth of an alleyway and turned toward his destination, a spring in his step.

oOo

"The street is longer than I remembered," Athos hissed.

His vision had dimmed a few times, but he had got into a routine of putting one foot in front of the other now, and d'Artagnan had tightened his own hold around his waist, averting any stumbles.

A fine sheen had appeared on Athos's forehead, and his limp had become more pronounced.

"Not far now," d'Artagnan replied, looking around.

oOo

The streets were thinning out less than an hour later, as noon approached and people rushed to the square for the spectacle.

At the Garrison, the guard found himself once more conversing with a body below.

"State your business," he shouted at the cloaked figure below him, who was looking around in a confused manner.

"Pardon, Monsieur," the man called, "Is this the Musketeer Garrison?"

"It is," the guard replied, gruffly. "State your business."

"I am assistant to the Apothecary, Simon Archambeau " the man replied, holding up the unrolled parchment, resplendent in its red and gold lettering.

When the guard did not look impressed, the parchment was quickly re-rolled and replaced by a small box. The lid was flipped open, revealing a glass phial within.

"It is my first day in the Apothecary's employ," he continued. "I have been tasked to bring this to the Musketeer Athos. My master has told me to deliver it personally into his hands, lest it fall into the hands of others. It is a medicine that requires respect."

The guard looked down at the man, and the man smiled.

"You would do me a favour, sir, if you allow me to complete my task. Or I fear my first day may be my last. My wife … would not be pleased," he pleaded.

The guard considered the request for a few moments before replying.

"Musketeer Athos is not here," he said.

The man raised a shaking hand to his mouth and looked around, a little lost.

"Then I am lost," he replied, verging on panic. "Unless, you know where he is?"

The guard faltered. d'Artagnan had implied they were not on duty, indeed they were going to seek a tavern at some point. But the sight of the poor man below him, and the wrath of his employer and his wife was not something the guard, himself a married man, wished on his conscience.

He pointed down the street.

"You will find him in his rooms in the Rue Ferou. To the end, turn right and it is the building next to the sack-maker's. At the top of the stairs."

The man visibly relaxed and carefully stowed the box back under his cloak.

"Thank you, Monsieur," he called. "I will be forever grateful. If you every need an Apothecary, I will be happy to serve on, on my master's behalf!"

"On your way now," the guard waved, hoping he would not be needing the services of such an establishment in the foreseeable future.

He watched as the man moved along the street in the direction he had pointed him.

oOo

At last, the Rue Ferou was in sight. Turning to the left, the pair moved toward the building that housed Athos's three rooms. Ahead, there was a wooden staircase to negotiate, though, and that looked taller than when he had last seen it.

They stood at the bottom, looking up, before side glancing each other and taking a breath. Both tightened their holds and began their ascent. There was a turn in the middle, where they both paused to catch their breath.

"Did you have to live on the first floor?"d'Artagnan panted, hand now braced on the banister.

"I have always found the higher position beneficial," Athos replied loftily, though breathlessly, moving ahead on his own. "It has its advantages," he added, as he swayed perilously.

d'Artagnan made a grab for him and they completed the ascent a few minutes later.

Athos passed the key to d'Artagnan, who inserted it into the lock.

Finally, the door swung open, much to the relief of both of them.

Athos slumped in his chair, his foot on a stool, arms crossed over his chest as he breathed carefully. He tucked his right hand under his left arm, to support his aching chest.

"It is good to be back," he sighed, as d'Artagnan opened the shutter on the window, sending dust moats swirling into the room.

The room they occupied was much as he had left it three weeks ago. Sparsely furnished, the bed had been made in a very rudimentary manner; the cover merely pulled roughly over the mattress. A half empty bucket of water stood under the window; Athos's usual means of clearing his head, when needs be.

From his chair, Athos looked around.

The table top in the corner was bare.

"It seems I am out of wine," he said, looking at the table.

He raised an expectant eyebrow and nodded toward the basket beneath the table. It usually held three or four bottles but was also empty.

"I'll go," d'Artagnan said, picking up the basket.

Athos watched him leave, before reaching inside his jacket. Taking out the now-familiar red hat, he carefully unfolded it and placed it on the arm of his chair, his hand coming to lie on top of it.

Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes.

oOo

d'Artagnan's departure did not go unseen.

Waiting until the young man had turned left down a side street, swinging the basket, Raymond moved from beneath a nearby overhang. Walking slowly toward the building, he stood at the foot of the wooden stairs, looking up at the door. Casting a furtive look around, he smiled as he drew his cloak around him and slowly walked up the stairs.

Inside, Athos shifted to get comfortable, adjusting his leg on the low stool.

Suddenly, the door opened and the room was flooded with light.

Athos looked up as a man filled the doorway.

"Hello, Athos," the familiar voice said.

**To be continued**


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty Two**

**The Garrison:**

Aramis was shouting at the guard before they had reached the archway, Porthos close behind him.

"Where is Athos!" he shouted urgently, as the guard came forward and peered down at him.

"He left with d'Artagnan. 'Bout an hour ago or more," the guard called back, unnerved by their obvious agitation.

"What do you mean! Where did they go?" Aramis demanded. "Athos could hardly walk and d'Artagnan was supposed to be watching him!"

"Said they were going to Athos's rooms," the man called down, confusion written across his face.

Aramis pushed his hand through his hair in exasperation and turned to Porthos. Before he could speak, the guard called down again.

"I pointed the Apothecary's assistant there," the guard shouted. "You just missed him."

"What?" Aramis frowned, confused by this new information.

"He had a bottle of laudanum," the guard explained. "Said his master wanted to ensure Athos got it personally."

"I know nothing of this," Aramis muttered, shaking his head and turning to Porthos. "Only the physician and myself order laudanum and we have a plentiful supply in the Infirmary."

"So you told him where Athos lives?" Porthos called to the guard.

From his perch above them, the guard looked a little abashed.

"He had the laudanum _and_ the paperwork," the guard argued.

"What's going on?!" Aramis said, turning to Porthos.

"Maybe it's legit?" Porthos pondered.

"You think?" Aramis murmured, not wanting to considered the alternative.

"Don't know but we better find out," Porthos replied and they both started running along the busy thoroughfare that led to the Rue Ferou.

The sight of two Musketeers charging hell for leather toward them made people scatter before them. Women pulled children into their arms and traders leaned across their tables to protect their wares.

oOo

"You are missing your brother's execution," Athos said, giving Raymond his usual bland stare.

"Oh, we said our goodbyes at the tavern," Raymond replied, pulling out his dagger. "They both took it well. They know I like my revenge when someone has wronged me."

Athos almost laughed, but it turned into a groan. He tucked his hand tighter under his arm to soothe his ribcage.

"I think you will find it was _you_ who wronged _me,_" he replied, curtly.

Raymond's eyes fell on the red hat on the arm of Athos's chair.

"Oh dear, did the old man not make it?" he sneered. "Did Silas drop dead? He didn't look too good, last time I saw him. Before they took me off to The Chatelet," he added angrily.

"He died an honourable death," Athos replied, tersely. "Which is more than you will do."

"Well, see, I haven't got long," Raymond said. "There's a ship in the harbour, and if I make haste, I will be on it and away by nightfall."

His hand tightened on a pistol he had taken from the Apothecary's shop. He had smirked when he found it. The man had had no chance to reach into the drawer for it. Perhaps he would have had a quicker death if he had, though Raymond had taken considerable pleasure in squeezing the life from him.

"You and me, though," he said thoughtfully, "We've got unfinished business. Trouble is, I like to take my time, Athos. Those brothers of mine were much too quick to kill."

"So you said," Athos replied, flatly, remembering the man's words to Henri that morning in the barn.

"Henri was right, though," Raymond added. "You _are_ a bold one. You should have had a slow death, they way we left you. When the Red Guard said a Musketeer patrol was riding to rescue you, I had hoped they would find you dead. Had I known they were so close, I would have slit your throat."

"Musketeers don't die easily," Athos bit out, his voice low and deadly.

Raymond smiled slyly and raised his pistol as he took a step closer to Athos.

"Oh, I agree," Raymond laughed. "You won't die _easily_. Not the way I intend to deal with you."

oOo

Outside, Aramis and Porthos covered the distance that Athos walked every morning in double quick time. They rounded the corner toward the Rue Ferou, within sight of the upper floor of Athos's lodgings a little ahead of them.

They looked around. People were going about their business, as usual. Nothing seemed amiss.

Inside his lodgings, Athos tensed, adrenaline beginning to thrum through his body.

oOo

"I do so like a slow death," Raymond said quietly, licking his lips.

"_So do I,_" a voice behind him suddenly said.

Whirling around, Raymond saw the young man give him a brief smile before he fired. The ball flashed through the air in a blast of gunpowder and smoke.

Raymond's eyes went wide with surprise as the ball found its mark. He clawed at his chest before sinking to his knees. Athos's dagger, hidden under his arm and thrown at the same time as d'Artagnan fired, was buried to the hilt in his throat.

"But we can't have everything, can we?" d'Artagnan smiled, as Raymond choked, his ruined throat pouring blood.

Neither man moved as the man began to fall backward, terrible noises escaping him.

Athos raised his eyes from Raymond to his friend, framed in the doorway to the back room. They both nodded once, as their quarry fell silent.

Athos shifted and stretched out his good leg, kicking Raymond's knee with his foot. Quite dead, thanks to his dagger, and d'Artagnan's musket ball buried in his chest.

"The German mercenaries tried subterfuge," Athos said, looking at d'Artagnan, now leaning in the doorway. "They pretended to defect. The Swiss Guard fell for it, and they were defeated."

"Subterfuge is good," d'Artagnan nodded in agreement.

"It would seem so," Athos agreed.

"I made sure I was seen, as you asked," d'Artagnan said, then. "If we were being watched."

"It appears we were," Athos said, straightening, suddenly not as infirm as he had pretended. Certainly their protracted journey to the Rue Ferou gave plenty of time to be observed.

"You were right," d'Artagnan smiled, stowing his cooling pistol in his belt.

Athos and d'Artagnan exchanged a satisfied look, before the sound of familiar footsteps on the outer stairway told them their brother's arrival was imminent. Aramis almost flung himself into the room, followed by an out-of-breath Porthos.

At the sight of Raymond dead before them, and his brothers - both very much alive - Aramis sagged with relief.

Pulling up a chair, he dropped into it.

"You both said you were staying in the Infirmary!" he gasped.

d'Artagnan smirked.

"He was going a little stir crazy," he replied, tilting his head toward Athos. "He's been telling me about the Battle of Arque."

"_H__as_ _he_," Porthos muttered darkly from the doorway, before sliding down the wall.

Aramis's eyes suddenly went wide.

"You knew Raymond would come for you!" Aramis suddenly cried. "You knew he wouldn't come for his brothers. How?"

Athos's eyes slid to the corpse on his floor.

"He was not that kind of brother," he said softly.

He looked over toward d'Artagnan.

"It is a shame your errand for wine was a subterfuge too," he said. "The walk here has taken all my strength."

At Athos's confession, Aramis suddenly began to search Raymond's body, suspecting it was not weakness that ailed him, but pain.

"Well, it seems you two are not the only ones who planned a deceit," he smiled in triumph.

Pulling a small box from Raymond's pocket, Aramis removed the lid and showed them the glass phial.

"Laudanum, hopefully," he said, carefully pulling the cork and sniffing the contents.

Normally, Athos may have been reluctant to take such a drug unless it was absolutely necessary but the morning had taken its toll, and Raymond owed him, dammit. So, in the absence of wine, he reached out his hand toward Aramis.

"Only half," Aramis said firmly, as he watched Athos raise it to his lips.

Further inspection of Raymond's body revealed the letterhead from the apothecary's shop. Aramis looked over at Porthos, who took the parchment. It was easy to see how their guard had been fooled. They would send someone to the establishment when they got back, though sadly, neither doubted that they would find Simon Archambeau in good health.

Raymond had taken no chances.

If the Musketeer guard had searched him, his story would hold firm and Athos would have been at his mercy, the Garrison thinned due to the executions. Aramis crouched in from of Athos and retrieved the half empty phial, resting his hand on Athos's knee.

"You sent us away on purpose," he persisted, searching Athos's face, before turning to d'Artagnan.

"Do not blame him," Athos interrupted. "We agreed on a plan but I never intended that we confront Raymond together."

"Then you should lock your back door," d'Artagnan said, holding up Athos's key. "That was part of our plan I _couldn't_ agree with," he smirked. "Subterfuge is good, but I would always have your back," he added, sincerely.

"Yes, perhaps I should have," Athos replied, raising an eyebrow at the key in d'Artagnan hand. "Thank you, on both counts."

Aramis and Porthos were looking confused, and Athos took pity on them. "I will explain later," he said, "back at the Garrison."

"How are you feeling?" Aramis asked, catching sight of the red hat beneath Athos's hand.

Athos looked once more at the body on his floor.

"At peace," he whispered.

Aramis followed his gaze. Raymond lay staring sightlessly at the ceiling, a blade and a musket ball finally avenging Silas and his friends.

"Excessive," Aramis murmured, grimacing at the gruesome sight.

Athos's hand curled around the red hat.

"No mercy," he growled.

"No mercy," his three comrades all agreed, as one.

**To be continued ...**


	23. Chapter 23

Final chapter, Dear Readers …

oOo

**Chapter Twenty Three**

When word had spread that Silas had passed away, more veterans had slowly returned to the village, encouraged also by word of the deaths of Raymond and Henri, together with Phillipe's imprisonment.

The spoils of war had kept the village, buying equipment when needed. The villagers had not asked where the money came from, but Silas always came through. It was only small amounts, but it was there when needed.

As promised, Treville had looked into Silas Marchant's military record.

Silas had been modest in his tale to Athos.

He had in fact, held the leprosy hospital almost single handedly; ironic as that turned out to be, as it had cost him his arm. He had held many of the opposing army at bay, firing from a high window. In doing so, he had saved many of his comrade's lives. Reading between the lines, Treville summised that Silas had not asked any of his comrades to accompany him on his mission. To enter such a place probably held more fear for some than the cannons and sabres of battle.

Silas had lost his arm, but he was well thought of and he was pensioned off. His comrades had their own way of thanking him, by giving him some of their own spoils as compensation. There were so many of them, that it added up to a good amount. There were many who were grateful to him not only for saving their lives, but for sharing his food and standing shoulder to shoulder with them. His commanding officer either turned a blind eye, or did not know the extent of it. Silas had returned to his village, and promptly buried it beneath the cart in his barn.

Silas wanted to protect his community from Raymond and his gang in more ways than one. But he also wanted to save Athos, first and foremost.

It was hard for Athos to return to the village.

Porthos had already dealt with his own feelings on his first return. It was equally hard for d'Artagnan and Aramis but it was a journey they would make to fulfil Silas's last wishes.

And so, a contingent of Musketeers had ridden out to start work on restoring the fields to their previous good condition. And also, to unearth a cache of spoils.

Silas had not taken any of the spoils himself. He had used the bounty wisely. A little here, a little there. Returning home from the war, he had put word out that veterans were welcome in the village and as it turned out, they had come.

Some of them knew Silas, some did not, but in post war France, the village became a refuge, where they all shared a common experience and all wanted a peaceful life. Many were disabled, but none were turned away. And so, Silas made good use of the coins, and when they were depleted, he had begun to sell the rings, chains and other pieces given to him. It had taken him several months to actually use the cache once he had buried it but in the end, it was for a good cause. Soldiers helping soldiers. Thus, it would have been a travesty if the Vachons had discovered it. So he had stayed to guard it. It was their future in an uncertain world, for war was ever close. He had always believed that one day, they would all return, if God was on their side. Unfortunately for those who did return, they had not expected Silas to not be there. He had been a stalwart in the village, his loss was unimaginable.

When Porthos, Aramis, d'Artagnan and a small contingent of Musketeers began to dig in the earth of the barn, a group of chosen villagers were curious. When the boxes and sacks were unearthed, they looked at each other in surprise.

"This was how Silas built up the village when he came back from the war," Treville explained to them, men who Treville hoped would form a new village council.

"Where did he get it?" one asked.

"When I searched his military record," Treville said, "There was testament from many of his comrades who had all donated what they had, either earned, been given, or taken by means unknown, to see him on his way. I presume that testament was there as evidence that Silas had not pilfered from the battlefield dead. It was honestly given and honestly received. Though some may wish to dig deeper as to where his comrades got it from in the first place."

It had been a relief to find that evidence. Treville had been in two minds, as had Aramis, as to the legality of the cache that Silas had brought back and had been eking out. It had not only exonerated him, but was proof of the high esteem in which Silas was held.

Athos had told them of the tale of Silas's experience at Arque, but the old man had not gone into great detail as to who had given him the spoils. There was always a question mark in their minds, despite their gratitude to Silas for what he had done for Athos. The law was the law after all, and they were its upholders.

The record was there, for anyone who wanted to see. Treville had closed the record book and left the building with a lighter heart.

Now, they needed to rebuild the village once again. Perhaps even rename it.

Treville had run his idea for a Village Council past Athos and had received his whole-hearted approval. Athos had reached out his hand and had shaken Treville's own; a welcome sign indeed that he was on the mend.

A few days later, they set out to help rebuild the village. Starting with the fields that would need planting quickly if a first crop was to come in before winter descended. It took two days and the Musketeers worked hard. Athos had accompanied them and had done what he could, considering he as not back to full health.

Porthos had found him on the first day standing alone in the middle of the empty barn, staring at the post. He flinched violently when Porthos gently touched his shoulder.

"He was a brave man," Porthos said, softly.

"It took courage to come in here and help me as he did," Athos agreed, side-glancing his friend, grateful for his presence.

"He wasn't the only one who showed courage, I reckon," Porthos said, dropping his hand to the small of Athos's back. "Come outside, now. Got somethin' for you."

Athos gave himself a shake, and smiled.

"Lead on," he murmured.

They walked out into bright sunshine.

Porthos walked to the horses, tethered nearby, and flipped open his saddle bag. Pulling something wrapped in cloth out, he smoothed it down, before turning and handing it to Athos.

Athos looked up at him and took it, a puzzled look on his face.

"What is it?" he murmured, before fully unwrapping it.

"Oh," he whispered, a genuine smile lighting up his face.

Porthos felt a lump in his throat at the sight of his friend, the renovated pauldron now there for him to see.

The leather had been cleaned and oiled, and the gilt-work buffed to a shine.

"Next time, take better care of it," Porthos growled, dropping his hand gently on his friend's shoulder.

Athos looked up at him once more, his eyes shining.

"Rest assured, I will," he said softly, reaching out and placing his palm on Porthos's chest.

"Thank you," he said, simply.

Porthos sniffed. "Get away with you," he grunted, before pushing him ahead, "Come and see what we're doin'"

Athos held the pauldron to his chest and fell in step beside his friend.

Ahead of them, the field was full of people, of all ages. It seemed that once word spread, thev illage was organising itself with not only the Musketeer's help, but with villagers from other hamlets in the area. Villagers who had kept themselves to themselves were, no doubt, glad to have escaped the attention of Raymond and had come along to offer their assistance. No doubt feeling guilty, they were helping the Musketeer patrol clear the field and dig new irrigation ditches.

There were all manner of people working, some women were handing out food, and children were playing on the edges of the field. The old veterans were looking on in amazement. It had taken a tragedy to bring these insular, suspicious folk together. That, and the spirit of an old man in a red, felt hat.

Aramis, in shirt sleeves and with his braces hanging off his shoulders, was showing a young boy how to use a spade. d'Artagnan was handing out food, and Treville was talking animatedly to a group of men; the new council members. Sworn to secrecy, they would ensure the cache was used sparingly but wisely, as Silas had. It also only made those few men respect the old man more. They would also swear, should awkward questions arise in the future, that the Musketeers had only helped them with labour and had not borne witness to the unearthing of the cache, thereby exonerating their part in it.

There was now hope, where there had been despair, as justice had finally prevailed. Raymond and his thugs had been tried, condemned and two of them were dead, the remaining brother incarcerated for life.

There was now, unbeknown to these villagers, but to the new council, funding for future developments. There was no need to eke it out, as Silas had done, in fear of casting one villager against the other, now that a trusted council oversaw it. They would also ensure that Silas would not be forgotten.

Porthos turned and tilted his head toward a copse of oak trees next to the barn. They both left the field and walked toward the clearing beneath the heavy branches. The sun filtered down through the leaves, casting sunlight in pools upon the grasses. A man crouched to the left of one of the wide tree trunks.

"Hugo," Porthos called, and the man straightened and turned.

He smiled in greeting and stepped aside.

Porthos and Athos looked beyond him to a simple wooden cross, surrounded by a circle of stones.

"This was Silas's place," Hugo explained. "We'd often see him sitting in here, back against this tree, smoking his pipe," he said. "He called it his "thinking space."

As Porthos and Athos approached, Hugo continued.

"We don't have him to lay to rest here, so some of us thought we should give him a marker."

"It is a fitting memorial," Athos said, quietly. "His name will live on in the village he loved."

It had concerned him that Treville had been unable to discover where Silas had been laid to rest. If, in fact he had been. It was more than possible that the Red Guard had buried him in the countryside before they reached The Chatelet. All things considered, Athos had deemed that preferable to being interred in the God-awful Chatelet plot of land they called a cemetery; the one that he, himself, may have been consigned to if his brothers had not moved heaven and earth to find the evidence that had exonerated him. This memorial then, truly eased his heart and went some way to right a wrong.

Porthos put his hand on Athos's back and eased him toward the tree.

"Rest 'ere in the shade for a bit, Athos," he said. "You know you and the sun have a poor acquaintance."

It was easier to tell him that than say he looked exhausted.

Athos huffed, but the suggestion was too tempting to resist. Moving into the shade, he removed his hat and slowly eased himself down.

"I'll be back in a bit," Porthos said, looking down at Athos, who had stretched out his legs and was watching Hugo putting the finishing touches to Silas's marker. "I'll try and rustle us up some wine," he added.

As he turned to go, he saw Athos pull Silas's hat from his inside jacket pocket and hand it to Hugo.

Hugo took it reverently and ran his fingers over it.

"The feather?" he asked.

"I have it," Athos replied. "I would like to keep it."

Hugo nodded and turned, placing the red hat on the upright post of the wooden cross.

"No name needed," Hugo said, quietly. "Everyone knew this hat," he smiled.

oOo

Porthos, meanwhile, had found the group he had brought to Paris beginning to fix up the buildings. No-one had encroached on Silas's barn but no doubt they would at some point. One old couple had brought their daughter and two grandchildren to see their home. As Porthos watched the children playing, an old woman approached.

"Silas would have loved to see the children here," Sarah said.

Porthos smiled and reached out, taking both her hands in his, before leaning down and kissing her cheek.

"Did Silas ever marry?" he asked, in response to her statement.

"He had a wife, once," she recalled. "Before he went to war. She died in childbirth. The babe too. When he came back, he said no woman should want to be embraced by only one arm."

She looked at Porthos's questioning expression.

"Silas was no fool," she said, firmly. "But he was in that."

As she walked away, Porthos decided that would be a little too much for Athos to hear.

oOo

The two days passed quickly and before long, it was time for the Musketeers to bid farewell to the men, women and children they had toiled beside. The fields had been cleared and tilled, and the seed would be sewn over the following few days.

In the end, it had not only been cathartic for The Inseparables, but enjoyable, as the barn came alive at night with lanterns strung inside and out, music and dancing, food and laughter. Tales were told, and neighbourly rifts healed. Treville had spent time with the new village council members, promising to return in three months to check their progress and offer any assistance he could.

By the end of the two days, Hugo had been elected Mayor, by unanimous vote. The stalls in the barn held two milking cows, brought along by villagers from the next hamlet. The hens and geese that Porthos had gifted them wandered about outside the barn, and the newly-refurbished stables held the horses that some of the returning veterans had brought with them, together with the horse that Treville had loaned the party who testified against the Vachons, to pull their cart on their return journey from Paris. That horse too, was gifted over to the village. There were plans for the purchase of a bull and a brace of oxen, after the first initial discussions between the new council and the tenants. Treville and his men were in no doubt that the village would soon begin to recover, given the speed of change they were witnessing. Goodwill and renewed friendships decreed it.

The villagers lined up as the Musketeers mounted their horses on the third morning.

Astride his horse, Athos cast a final look toward the glade; Silas's red hat ablaze in a shaft of sunlight.

"Goodbye, my friend," he said, softly.

Porthos eased his horse forward, abreast of him, with Aramis falling in on his other side. Ahead, Treville rode with d'Artagnan, nodding toward the council members, who each raised a hand in farewell.

Back in Paris, Silas would not be forgotten by the Musketeer Garrison.

There was now a feather, nailed to the wall above the door to the Infirmary and for one Musketeer, the memory of an old man with clear blue eyes and a shock of white hair who, though not able-bodied, would not be cowed into submission.

A thriving village not far from Paris was testament to that.

**The End**

oOo

**A/N: **And so we come to the end. Many thanks for sticking with it. I'll be returning to Infirmary Talks soon.


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